


Out of the Woods

by GoodMorningMoon



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: But a drugged and wounded Murdoch is a handful, Camping, Delirium, Episode Related, Fever, Friendship, Funny, Gen, George is a patient man, Gunshot Wounds, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Male Friendship, Medical, Medical Procedures, Missing Scene, Road Trips, Some Humor, Travel, Whump, Wilderness, foraging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-14 14:36:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21017387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodMorningMoon/pseuds/GoodMorningMoon
Summary: Filling a gap in S8E11, "All That Glitters." How did George get a wounded Murdoch home from Haileybury? Crossposted on FF.net.





	1. Out in the Woods

**Author's Note:**

> I think I started working on this subconsciously as soon as I'd seen the episode. 
> 
> Eternal gratitude to Maureen Jennings, Shaftesbury Films, and everyone who works on _Murdoch Mysteries_ \-- thanks for creating such a wonderful universe to play in. 
> 
> Please comment! Feedback = fuel for more stories.

"George… I don't… I…" William Murdoch felt his knees start to buckle.

"Sir… sir!" _He's about to go down! _George realized, and lunged to catch him, just in time.

It had been an extraordinarily bad day. George Crabtree was running on the fumes of the last time he'd really slept, three days ago in North Bay. Since then he'd spent two full days on the back of a donkey, a night in a cramped tent surrounded by… _nature_ (he shuddered at the thought), and another night upright in a chair against the door, panicked by a potential return of that terrifying Mack woman to his room at the Haileybury inn. And then he and Detective Murdoch were in the woods where Edward Graham's map had sent them, and Mack found them and _shot the detective_ and nearly shot him, too, until Migizi Pimise killed her right in front of him. And _then_ Murdoch managed to turn their sole protector against them, and now here they were fleeing the Anishinaabe camp as fast as George Crabtree could drag William Murdoch… yes, it had been a terrible day, and it was not yet over. George was exhausted just thinking about it.

His head was still buzzing from the receding adrenaline, and his body felt like a limp noodle. Being held at riflepoint was bad enough, but twice in one day? Far, far too much. Murdoch wheezed and coughed as he leaned heavily on Crabtree for support, the two slowly retreating from the encampment and back into the woods. They stopped only to retrieve their hats and Crabtree's collared shirt and waistcoat, lying on the ground near where the wounded Murdoch had come to not ten minutes before.

George was silently seething. He knew it wasn't the detective's fault he'd been shot—George had only narrowly missed the same fate himself—but it _was_ his fault that their fortunes had turned so drastically in that short ten minutes. One moment the medicine woman had been gently tending to Murdoch's bullet wound, and the next they'd been kicked out of the camp altogether, sent into the unfamiliar woods to navigate back to Haileybury by themselves. How could Murdoch have thought it wise to try to arrest Migizi Pimise, the man who had saved their lives, their guide back to the train station in North Bay? Now they were at least five miles from the inn where they'd stayed the night before, and George wasn't sure how to find it again. Even if they did get there, George didn't even want to think about how they were going to get home to Toronto without Migizi Pimise's help.

"Sir. Do you recall exactly where you left your bag?" Murdoch had dropped a small pack containing the map, a canteen of water, and a bundle of dried venison for them to snack on as they hiked.

"I know where I left it, but how should I know how to find it again, George," Murdoch returned irritably. "I was unconscious when I arrived in the camp, was I not?"

"When Migizi Pimise and I carried you in, yes. You were indeed, sir. But I saw you put the bag down near Edward Graham's claim, and I believe I can find that area without much trouble. It was near the water's edge, and if I'm right we are just farther south along the shore."

"So if you know where we're going, why did you bother asking me?" Murdoch snapped. He was clearly in a lot of pain, and perhaps he was starting to realize the predicament he had put them in.

George was silent. His tongue could be very sharp if he didn't mind it, and at the moment he could not trust himself not to lash back at the wounded man. They had a dreadfully long journey ahead of them, and George knew it was in everyone's interest to try to keep the peace. He would have to manage his fury wordlessly for now.

He guessed they had been walking along the lake for at least twenty minutes when Murdoch leaned on him even more heavily and started to stumble. "Sir?"

"I… I think I need to sit down, George." His breath was ragged. "I need to rest for a bit."

"All right, then, let's find you a log or a stump or some such. I don't want to have to get you all the way back up from the ground." George's eye lit on a stump, and he shepherded Murdoch toward it.

"This… this stump looks familiar, George," Murdoch said as he sank down onto it. George looked around, and suddenly felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck.

"We've been here before, sir." The sound of the gunshot that had felled the detective cracked again loudly in his memory, so vividly that he could smell the gunpowder. The adrenaline surged through him again, and he took a moment to catch his breath and will his pounding heart to slow down.

Murdoch noticed George freeze. "George." There was no response. "George, are you all right?" he asked.

George blinked a few times, then shook his head—he'd have said it was to clear it, but Murdoch correctly interpreted the gesture as a "no." Steeling himself, George pointed to the base of a tree. "Mack." He swallowed hard, to fight back a wave of nausea.

The corpse of the woman who had shot Murdoch lay on the forest floor. Flies were buzzing around it, and it looked as if a few animals had already been by to help themselves. Murdoch instinctively blessed himself, although he felt little sorrow about this particular death. This person—this claim jumper, this _thief, _this would-be _murderer_—was the reason he was in agony, the source of the bullet wound in his shoulder, the cause of his painful, wheezing cough.

He hesitated, then spoke. "Should we leave her?"

George stared at him, incredulous. "Are you quite serious, sir?"

Murdoch nodded, his eyes wide and sincere.

George felt his gorge rise and tried to swallow it again before he nearly shouted. "Well what else could we _possibly_ do with her right now? You _do_ realise we have to hike back out to the hotel, which is no short distance, and if you don't mind my saying so, sir, you're more in need of being carried yourself at the moment than you're able to carry anyone else. You were quite senseless not even half an hour ago! And seeing as it's three days since I had a wink of sleep, I dare say I'm finding it quite a challenge to bear so much of your weight, let alone that of such a substantial woman!"

"Of course, George. Of course. I'm sorry. We'll have to make a note on the map of where she is, and send someone out from Haileybury to retrieve her."

"If you say so, sir."_ Although I would certainly be_ _content to leave her as a meal for the wolves_, George thought resentfully. He cared hardly at all what happened to Mack, and he was not at all happy with the prospect of five miles of bushwhacking under the weight of an injured man. "I believe I can find your pack from here. You stay put and I'll be back as soon as I can."

"I'm not going anywhere, George," Murdoch muttered, and coughed again.

George returned with the small pack to find the detective sitting on the ground, leaning against the stump and dozing. He was pale, and there was a spot of fresh blood on his shirt. George closed his eyes and muttered a quiet oath before he announced his presence. "Sir? Sir! I'm back with your bag."

There was no response. George crouched down and shook Murdoch's good shoulder gently. "Sir! Wake up."

Murdoch startled awake, disoriented. "George! Where are we?"

"In the woods, sir."

"The woods?" Murdoch asked, his face clouded with confusion.

"We're on the north tip of Long Lake, sir. We have to get moving again. I found your bag." George deposited it on Murdoch's lap.

"Oh. Right. Of course." The detective opened the top flap of the bag and reached in to grab the canteen. George unscrewed the lid for him, and he took a long drink. He wiped his mouth and offered the canteen to George, who took a small sip and then put the lid back on. "I'm hoping we won't need to conserve this, sir."

"Oh. Sorry. Let's hope not. There was a time I could tolerate the lake water, but I'd rather not have to try." Murdoch dug into his pocket to produce the compass, and pulled the map from the bag. "It took us, what? About ninety minutes to get here from the inn?"

"It'll be slower in your current state, sir," George pointed out, his eyes dark.

"I suppose it will," said Murdoch, resigned, as George helped him unfold the map and lay it out on his lap. He studied it carefully, then held up the compass in the palm of his hand. After a moment he looked up and gestured. "That's north. We came in from between those trees. With the map and what I remember of how we got here, I think we'll be all right getting back. Help me up, will you, George?" he asked, folding up the map one-handed and putting it and the compass away.

George grabbed the pack and donned it, then ungracefully heaved Murdoch up off the ground and pulled his arm over his shoulders again. Murdoch had barely found his own feet before he found himself lurching off north. "Ow! Ow, George, slow down! Please!" he cried out.

George exhaled impatiently and adjusted his pace. He wanted to be out in the woods for as short a time as possible. He hated the noise of the branches snapping under their feet, the smell of the decaying leaves on the forest floor, the biting mosquitoes, the feel of the place where twice in a matter of hours he'd been preparing to meet his maker. The ruthlessness of Nature's efforts to return Mack to the dust whence she came. But the detective was wheezing again, and although George was incensed with the man, he did not wish to increase his suffering.

"All right, sorry, sir," George said contritely. A hint of the contrition was even genuine, but he was having a hard time remembering the last time he had been this angry.

They hiked along for what must have been at least 45 more minutes before either of them spoke again. It was George who broke the awkward silence.

"Sir, this may not be the best time to ask, but how are we going to get back to North Bay from Haileybury?"

"Well, on horseback, of course." Murdoch's tone was almost condescending.

"I suppose Mack won't be needing hers…" George gave a hollow chuckle. "But that's not what I meant, sir. What I meant is, who's going to guide us? Migizi Pimise certainly won't help us now, and he's the one with all the gear and the knowledge of the land. It was his tent we slept in, and his kit that we used to prepare the food. He and his people _were_ very good to us, sir." _At least until you tried to arrest him. _"And are you even going to be able to ride a horse one-handed?"

Murdoch pressed his lips together. "I've done it before, George. I broke my wrist once when I was a ranch hand, and I missed only one day of work."

"But you weren't _shot_ then, sir. You can't even hold yourself up right now."

"What choice do I have, George?" Murdoch asked bitterly. "We have to get back to Toronto. Julia will worry. Inspector Brackenreid is expecting us back at the station house. We have to go home."

George was sceptical. "Well, I can't say as I understand the urgency, sir. But what about a wagon? Could we hitch a ride on a wagon?"

Murdoch shook his head. "The passenger coaches run twice a week and are booked in advance, and the cargo wagons don't take passengers. We'll pick up the horses tomorrow morning and figure something out. I can navigate and I know how to be in the woods."

George scowled. "Well if it's such a priority to get back to Toronto, I suppose your well-being must be a secondary consideration," he said acerbically. "Although I don't look forward to explaining your condition to Doctor Ogden when the ambulance has to meet us at Don Station to take you to Toronto General. If we even get that far."

"George." Murdoch was stung, and somehow managed to sound scolding nonetheless. He was about to say more when a word caught in his throat and started another bout of coughing. He held fiercely to George, who pressed onward. He could at least get them to the inn.


	2. Night at the Inn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes find themselves with a roof overhead, at least briefly. George learns the hard way not to trust the innkeeper's dispensary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a lot of fun to write. Poor George.

Were it not for the blood on Murdoch's shirt, the desk clerk and the other guests at the inn might have thought the big city coppers were staggering in drunk. George was quite outdone by the hike, and Murdoch was hanging onto him for dear life.

Bullet wounds, from such mishaps as hunting accidents and conflicts over land claims, were not uncommon in the area. The clerk's perfunctory inquiries into Murdoch's condition were satisfied by George's mention of the medicine woman. Other men in the bar nodded sympathetically at the pair as they passed. By the time they reached the door of Murdoch's room, George was bearing nearly his entire weight, and had to do quite a balancing act to unlock and open the door without dropping him.

George shepherded his senior officer to the bed and sat him on the edge while he arranged Murdoch's bedroll under the pillow, recalling Doctor Ogden's admonition that wounds should be elevated above the heart. George then gingerly laid Murdoch down, holding a hand behind his head, and then helped him swing his legs up onto the bed. He pulled the detective's boots off, one at a time, and placed them next to the door. Murdoch grunted slightly in thanks.

"Are you hungry, sir?" George asked. Murdoch grunted again. "Is that a yes or a no?" George snapped, his patience razor thin.

"Yes. Sorry, George. I'm hungry." Murdoch did not open his eyes.

"Right, then, I'll go down and get us some food. I'll be back shortly." George departed Murdoch's room, closing the door behind himself and leaving Murdoch to rest alone for a time.

Murdoch had been keeping himself going on adrenaline, but stopping and lying down meant that the full weight of the trauma he'd suffered had time to settle back into his bones. The hike of nearly two hours very shortly after a bullet entered—and was then dug out of—his upper chest had wiped him out completely, and whatever the medicine woman had given him was wearing off. He was spent. Every time he coughed it felt like the shot was ripping through him again, and he lay in misery waiting for George to return.

The younger man was gone for what seemed like forever. Murdoch's thoughts kept returning to the moment in the woods when Mack had pulled the trigger. Searing pain in his shoulder. A hard landing on the forest floor. Every time his mind replayed the memory, his heart began to pound. He drifted off into an ugly dream with Mack firing shot after shot at him as he stood unable to move, as if a paper target in a shooting gallery at a carnival.

"Sir." George was back. Murdoch jerked awake at his greeting, then gasped from the pain of the sudden movement. "Oh good, sir, I was afraid you had passed out," George continued. I brought you some venison stew and an analgesic." He set the bowl down, and waved a small brown bottle at Murdoch, who looked at him groggily.

"I didn't hear you come in, George. Was… Was I asleep?" George nodded. "The stew smells good. What's in the bottle?

"Some sort of patent medicine. The innkeeper said it was a most effective preparation for pain relief. It's, ah, I believe one of the ingredients is laudanum. I dare say the innkeeper maintains quite the impressive dispensary." George unscrewed the cap of the bottle as he spoke.

"Laudanum, George? Isn't that a bit strong? I hate feeling so… foggy."

"Sir! You are nursing a gunshot wound. You're clearly in agony, and you're already… foggy, as you put it." He smirked a little. "The laudanum will just give you a nicer time of it."

Murdoch chuckled humourlessly. "Well, I suppose. All right." He shrugged, and then winced. "I imagine Julia would insist." He smiled at the thought of his treasured wife while George filled the eyedropper and eyed it carefully to make sure the dosage was precise.

"All right, sir, ten drops of whatever this is. 'Doctor Percival Peckingham's Pain-Pacifying Elixir.' Here you are." George handed the eyedropper to Murdoch, who squeezed its contents into his mouth and wrinkled his nose.

"Cinnamon. Quite strong." He swallowed, and shuddered a bit before coughing a few times.

"The innkeeper said this would also be a quick remedy for the coughing."

"Good. Very good," Murdoch answered. "Thank you, George." He paused. "Would you mind getting me some water?"

"Of course, sir. I filled the canteen just now." He unscrewed the lid and handed it to Murdoch, who took a long draught.

Crabtree regarded the detective appraisingly. His anger had dissipated somewhat since they had arrived back at the inn and Murdoch was safely ensconced in a proper bed, and now he was feeling protective. Much as he wanted some solitude, he decided that duty called. "Sir, if you don't mind, I should like to keep an eye on you overnight. You're badly injured, you hiked at least ten miles today, and you've just had a narcotic. I should think you'd best have some company."

Murdoch lay with his eyes closed, waiting for the laudanum to kick in. "What?" he said distantly. "Company?"

"Yes, sir. I spoke with the innkeeper about the matter and he's willing to move a bed in here. You've a large room and I don't think Doctor Ogden would forgive me if I didn't stay with you, given your current circumstance. Should you require anything in the night, all you need do is ask."

"But George. You haven't slept," protested Murdoch.

"Sir. I'll sleep here. I insist. The innkeeper asked me just to say the word, and I'm going to do so. We'll be back in a few minutes with my belongings and a bed, and then I'll sleep here."

Murdoch admitted defeat; the argument hardly seemed a worthwhile one. "Very well… uh, of course, George. As you wish."

George didn't wish—he wanted nothing more than a quiet night in a private space—but duty called. "Thank you, sir. I'll be back."

* * *

Murdoch was finishing the venison stew and smiling beatifically when Crabtree and the innkeeper returned, and he was most entertained by the proceedings as they worked to manoeuvre the second bed into the room. It was quite an operation, as they had to turn the bed on its side to get it through the door, and then shift some other furniture around to make space. Murdoch was giggling openly by the time they were finished, and the innkeeper glanced at him with patient amusement as George tipped him and he departed the room.

"That was… quite funny, George. The bed on its side. Imagine anyone trying to sleep in a sideways bed! One would keep falling on the floor!"

"Ah, hello, sir." Crabtree tried to keep himself from tittering. "I see Dr. Peckingham's elixir is doing its work. Are you feeling any better?"

"Oh, yes, George. Much better! My shoulder hurts, but it's over there. See?" He smiled widely, and gestured vaguely at the other side of the room. "By the way. By the way. What a strange expression, 'by the way.' By the way! Have you noticed what a beautiful room this is? So clean and white!" He giggled again.

A corner of George's mouth rose in amusement. "Yes, sir, it's certainly comfortable here. Much more so than on a horse or in a tent or on the train."

"Yes. Yes it is, George. I agree." Murdoch nodded hard a few times.

George wished for a moment that the detective could be this amenable when he was _not_ under the influence of opium or whatever else was in that bottle. He suspected that, enthusiastic as Murdoch was now about a comfortable bed under a solid roof, he would insist on departing Haileybury first thing in the morning, even if he was in no shape to do so. George sighed, then spoke: "Sir, do you have another shirt? The one you're wearing is rather bloody."

"Why, yes! I believe I do. The other one has a collar, though. It's a nice shirt. Julia got it for me." He paused for a moment, pensive. "I miss Julia. She's not here."

"No she isn't, sir," George acknowledged. "All right, if it's a nice shirt it's probably best you not sleep in it. I assume you have a spare undervest or two? Might I help you into one of those, so I can wash the blood out of the shirt you're wearing?"

"Blood!" Murdoch declared cheerfully. "We see a lot of blood in our work, you and I do, don't we, George?"

"Yes, sir, yes we do. Your shirt, sir. It's bloody. I'm going to help you out of it." George took the bottom edge of Murdoch's shirt and started to work it up toward his chest.

"Oh! Yes. Blood, on my shirt! My blood! Look at that. We should clean that up."

"Yes, sir, that's what I'm trying to do. Could you pull your right arm out of the sleeve, please? And then I'll take care of getting the left sleeve off."

It took a few minutes to wrangle Murdoch's shirt over his head. The detective found the effort most hilarious, while George nursed a complicated mix of lingering anger, deep fatigue, and great amusement at the dopey, sanguine detective. Once the shirt was off, George put it in the basin in the corner, and poured some water from the room's pitcher over it.

"Oh! George! Is that water? I need water. Could you get me some water?"

"Is your mouth dry from the laudanum, then, sir? Of course." He retrieved the canteen, filled it back up from the pitcher, and handed it to the man in the bed. Murdoch took another long drink, and smiled, wonder in his eyes.

"George, have you ever thought about water?"

"Water, sir."

"It is truly a remarkable substance. Every life form on Earth owes its existence to water! And it takes different forms! Solid, and liquid, and gas!"

"Yes, sir," George said indulgently as he helped Murdoch into an undervest and then pulled the covers up over him. "So very ordinary, and yet quite an extraordinary thing as well, water." He could humour the detective for a few more moments, he thought as he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his boots. He was going to climb into his own bed with his very own cherished pillow, and he was finally, _finally_, going to get some sleep.

"Yes!" replied Murdoch, excited. "Water is marvellous!"

George nodded absently. "Mm-hmm." He turned the covers down and burrowed underneath them. The bed felt absolutely glorious. His pillow, smelling of home, welcomed him like an old friend. He didn't care what the detective thought of his bringing it along—this moment made it all worthwhile. _Sleep._ _Blessed, marvellous sleep._ He blew out the lantern, and welcomed the darkness and silence.

"And did you know what else, George?" Murdoch chirped.

"What," George said dully. He did not want to know what else.

"Laudanum is a most intriguing substance! Did you know that it is most properly referred to as tincture of opium, as it contains all or nearly all the opium alkaloids from the poppy flower?"

"Mmf," said George.

"Now the one alkaloid absent from certain preparations of laudanum is called noscapine. Noscapine happens to work as a strong emetic. I'm sure you can see why one might want one's laudanum not to cause vomiting. Can't you, George?"

George whimpered.

"And noscapine has such a strong smell! The French chemist Pierre Robiquet was able to isolate it in 1817, naming it 'narcotine,' and ever since then, denarcotised and deodorised tincture of opium has become far more popular than the unprocessed form. Did you know that, George?"

"Sir," said George thickly.

"Now laudanum these days—well, ever since Thomas Sydenham's experiments in the seventeenth century—laudanum is generally mixed with alcohol."

"Jesus cod-kissing Christ," George muttered under his breath. He thought he might lose his mind if he had to listen to another word about the damned laudanum. "Sir?"

"Yes, George?"

"I need to sleep, sir."

"Oh! Of course, George. Sleep. Sleep sounds lovely. Let us sleep, then. Good night, George."

"Good night, sir."

Murdoch fell silent, and George gratefully began to drift off. Oh, how excited he was to say hello to the welcoming arms of Morpheus. He took a few deep breaths, relishing the quiet.

"George."

George began contemplating whether a jury would convict him of a crime if he did the detective in right here. Surely the circumstances were mitigating enough.

"Sir."

"One more thing, George. I should like you to know that you are a most agreeable travelling companion. In fact, you are a most agreeable companion in nearly any circumstance."

George swallowed. The conversation, which he did not at all want to be having in the first place, had taken quite an unexpected turn. "Uh… thank you, sir. As are you."

"You are most welcome, George. I believe I have neglected to mention this, but I've thought so for quite some time. Perhaps even as long as we've worked together. 'George!' I have thought. 'What a loyal, decent, kind, reliable, _good_ man.' I am quite blessed to work with you, George. Even if your theories are sometimes quite outlandish."

George rolled over, trying to process what was happening. He had never seen Murdoch more than a little tipsy, let alone well into the "I love you, old chum!" stage. He was grateful for the kind words—he'd been waiting for them for years—but in his own current state he was finding it quite difficult to absorb them. "Now sir, my theories have often helped solve cases," he replied, a little defensively, having no idea what else to say.

He heard Murdoch shift in his bed. "Why, yes, George, I do believe you're right! The way you look at things opens… possibilities I might not otherwise have considered. George! My goodness. Constable George Crabtree!" he continued. "You're my best friend. The best right hand a man could possibly ask for. You are quite marvellous."

George was wide awake again, and smiling in disbelief. "Thank you, sir. I… I dare say I'm grateful you've noticed." It was too dark for Murdoch to see George's crooked grin. "Given your frequent impatience with me, I've sometimes wondered whether you had."

"Oh, never mind my impatience, George, your insights are always welcome! Right hand. And now here you are looking after me. I don't think I ever make it clear how fond I am of you. George! I lo—"

"_Thank_ you, sir!" George cut in, slightly agitated. This was becoming a little too strange. "Sir, I do appreciate your praise and your bonhomie. And I must say it has been one of the greatest honours of my life to serve with you. And I should very, very much like to sleep now." George could not let this conversation go any farther. He was too tired and too embarrassed, and who knew what else a garrulous, gleefully drugged William Murdoch might say? "Sir. You are injured, and we have had a long and extraordinarily unpleasant day. I should very much like to go to sleep now," he repeated.

"Of course, George. I'm sorry. Good night. Sleep well."

"You as well, sir."

Blessed silence. A door closed somewhere down the hall. George drifted off.

"George?"

"_For the love of God_, sir."

"George, what exactly was in that bottle from the innkeeper?"

George felt a vein throbbing in his forehead. "I don't know, sir." He pulled the covers up over his head. "_Sleep_, sir."

A few more moments of silence, and George was drifting off again.

"I am feeling curiously energetic, and far too restless for sleep. Perhaps the bottle also contained some sort of stimulant. Would you be so kind as to check the label, George?"

The blood roaring in George's ears drowned out Murdoch's words. A storm cloud over his head, he rolled out of his beloved bed and fumbled around in Murdoch's bag for the flashlight. Finding it, he turned on the beam and spotted the bottle of patent medicine. He picked it up, and inspected the label. _Cocaine, _it read.

"Cocaine!" Murdoch exclaimed. "I suspected as much. Now I was recently reading an article in one of the medical journals, I believe it was the April issue of the _British Medical Journal_, about the toxicity of cocaine and a recent series of unfortunate deaths it appears to have caused in Calcutta. Now I suppose you do know that cocaine and opium come from entirely different plants, but you may find it fascinating to learn that…"

George dropped the bottle like a hot coal. _Bloody, bloody Hell, _he thought_. _Anguished, he slithered back under the covers, wrapped his pillow around his head, and whimpered. It was going to be yet another very long night.


	3. An Unsettling Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Murdoch be wise enough to stay put? Of course not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to my partner and kid for coming up with some great ideas about plot and character, especially the stablehand.

It must have been about eleven o'clock when Murdoch finally passed out, if George judged correctly from the height of the full moon in the window. He rolled over, rubbed his eyes a little, and…

…a beam of sunlight hit him in the face. Someone shouted in the hall. He jolted awake, bewildered. Hadn't he just…

He heard Murdoch shift position, and then moan softly. "Sir?" he inquired.

"Hello, George."

"Well good morning, sir. At least I assume this is morning—I could have sworn that mere seconds ago it was the middle of the night."

"Did you sleep, then, George?"

"I, uh, couldn't say as to whether I did or didn't! I must have? I admit I was exceedingly fatigued. How are you keeping this morning, sir?"

Murdoch lifted his arm experimentally, and blanched. "It would appear my shoulder is not much improved."

George was not surprised. "Indeed, sir? I'm sorry to hear it."

Murdoch slowly pushed himself up and swung his feet onto the floor, his breath hitching as he moved. "I'll be all right, George. We must be on our way."

George closed his eyes and sighed. _I knew it_, he thought resignedly. _I knew it._ He rolled out of bed to get dressed.

George had changed into a fresh union suit and pulled his trousers back on before he noticed that Murdoch was still sitting motionless on the edge of his bed, his head bent down. "You're going to need some help, aren't you, sir," said George matter-of-factly.

"Yes, George. I'd be grateful."

George turned to Murdoch's bag, and began rummaging through it. "There's your shirt, sir. We'll need to change your bandage. Do you have anything we could use?"

"No. We'll have to ask the innkeeper."

"I suppose so."

George helped Murdoch into his shirt, and buttoned it up before tucking it into his trousers. He held out one of Murdoch's boots, and Murdoch appeared to stare right through it. The detective was clearly ruminating on something.

"George."

George froze for an instant. _He's not going to start explaining things again, is he?_ he thought with slight alarm. "Yes, sir?" he finally managed, as Murdoch finally pointed his toe into the boot.

"I'm afraid I can't recall much of last evening after you administered the patent medicine. I have a few flashes of feeling particularly jovial, and a sense I may have said things that were perhaps, ah, untoward, but that's all. Whatever was in that bottle?"

_That blasted elixir_, George groused to himself. "Well, there was laudanum, of course, but it turns out there was also a significant amount of cocaine. You were most animated, sir." He held out the other boot.

Murdoch flushed slightly. "'Animated,' you say."

"Yes indeed, sir. Discoursing at some length on the properties and history of laudanum, and on other topics as well." A corner of George's mouth twitched.

"What other topics, George?" he asked so hesitantly that George wondered if a glimmer of memory was returning. "I hope I didn't embarrass myself."

"Think nothing of it, sir," George said, turning back toward his bed so the detective could not see his face. He picked up the previous day's union suit and started to fold it.

"So I did embarrass myself." Murdoch grimaced.

"Not to my recollection," George said innocently, tucking the folded clothes into his bag.

"George. You know I can tell when you're lying."

"Yes sir." George wouldn't meet his eye.

Murdoch waited.

"There," said George, closing his bag. "The innkeeper should be serving breakfast by now. Shall we adjourn to the public house, sir?"

Murdoch was opening his mouth to press George on the events of the previous evening when George shot him a look. Murdoch recognized within it the same air of warning that many suspects would give him when he was getting a little too close to the truth. But there was also an unspoken question: _Are you so very sure you want to know?_

"Very well, then, George, we could both use a hearty breakfast before we begin the journey home." Murdoch rose, and took an experimental step, then another. He was steadier than he had been in the woods yesterday: the night's sleep had made quite a difference. Perhaps this trip would not be as bad as George was anticipating.

* * *

Breakfast was a heaping pile of scrambled eggs, venison sausage, and sourdough bread, and the two men tucked in eagerly. Once they were sated, Murdoch returned to the room to finish packing his bags while George negotiated the final bill with the innkeeper. For an extra dollar, the innkeeper threw in some gauze from his little dispensary, and material for a sling. George also managed to convince him to exchange the horrid patent medicine for half as much laudanum in whisky, in case the detective needed pain relief during their journey. George had noticed Murdoch guarding his shoulder, and the man's entire bearing was pained. He suspected it was taking a lot of effort for Murdoch to be up and about at all.

Finding a guide for the trip to North Bay proved as difficult as George had feared. On speaking with the innkeeper, he learned that word had already spread that Murdoch and Crabtree were _persona non grata_ with the guides: the innkeeper told him he couldn't arrange for anyone to direct them if his life depended on it. They could rent the horse and the donkey they'd arrived on, for a price, and use the camp along the way if no one else needed it, but that was as much as he could do.

George's expression was grim when he returned to Murdoch's room. All the bags were packed and ready to go by the door, but Murdoch was flat on his back again, and he looked a bit grey. He greeted George without opening his eyes.

"Hello, sir. I've spoken with the innkeeper, and he explained the arrangement by which he acts as an agent for the local Indian guides who take people to and from North Bay. It seems the founder of Haileybury, a Charles Farr, worked out an arrangement years ago: the innkeeper acts as agent for the guides and stables the horses, in exchange for a cut of the profits. Apparently Mr. Farr intended—"

"Get to the point, George," Murdoch snapped impatiently. "Do we have a guide?"

"Well, that's just it, sir. Given the inn's exclusive arrangement with the guides, and the guides' new antipathy toward us…" Murdoch's eyes widened with irritation. "Well, no, sir. We do not have a guide. We can rent the horse and the donkey we arrived on, and we have the use of the camp at the midway point as long as no one else needs the space, but there will be no one to assist us." He hesitated. "Perhaps we should consider staying on here a bit longer until you are fit to travel."

"I'm _fine_, George. I just need some help changing this bandage and then we'll be on our way. Like I said, I've spent a lot of time in the woods. I can get us to the train."

George drew himself up to argue, but realized it was pointless. He had worked with William Murdoch long enough to know just how stubborn he could be, and George could not bring himself to open insubordination. If Murdoch said they were leaving today, they were leaving today. He sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "If you say so, sir, but let it be known that I am most opposed to this plan. Now the innkeeper did sell me some gauze, if you'll be so kind as to let me apply it…"

* * *

The last thing George did before the two men headed to the stables was to send a telegram to Doctor Ogden in Toronto, to let her know that they were on their way home. He debated at length whether to mention Murdoch's injury, and eventually decided not to—there was no point worrying her when she could do nothing about it until they arrived back in the city. He would telegraph her again from North Bay to let her know which train they would be on; perhaps he would tell her then of the misadventure, depending on the detective's condition. But he was hoping past hope for an uneventful ride.

George emerged from the building to find Murdoch leaning against the outside wall, eyes closed, taking slow, deep breaths. "Sir? Are you quite all right?"

Murdoch opened one eye and glared. "Let us be on our way, then, George." He gathered himself up and headed toward the stable.

_Very well, then, sir, if that is how you wish it, _George thought sullenly. He was moving just as slowly as the detective: he was laden down with all the bags, the bedrolls, and his pillow. The bags were heavier than on the journey north—this time they were responsible for their own provisions and water. Murdoch had tried to take his own pack, but the effort to lift it had led to a bout of coughing, and so George had silently relieved him of it.

When they arrived at the stable they had a short argument about whether Murdoch should have some laudanum before mounting his horse. George advocated for a dose, arguing that unrelenting pain without relief would be most debilitating, especially over such a long day. Murdoch, on the other hand, insisted that a full dose would astronomically increase the risk of his falling off his horse. Eventually they compromised on four drops rather than the full ten: for all his bravado, Murdoch was quite miserable, and doubts about his ability to get himself and George safely south, doubts he would never voice, were nagging at him with increasing frequency.

George called out toward the stable door in greeting, and a wiry young lad with piercing blue eyes and rakish hair peeked out. He was perhaps 16 or 17 years of age, dressed in bib overalls and a dusty collarless shirt. Murdoch regarded him curiously. "You're not the gentleman we met here two days ago."

"'Gentleman.'" The young man snorted. "Nope. I'm his son. Joe. I'm here when he's too drunk to get out of bed. You're Murdoch and Crabtree," the lad said brusquely.

"I see our reputation precedes us," George said, trying to adopt an air of good humour even as his heart skipped a beat. _This must go well. It simply must._

Joe regarded them evenly. "I hear you're the ones wanting to get to North Bay with no guide."

"You hear correctly," said Murdoch. There was a silence as the lad stared at them. George found his gaze quite unnerving.

"My pop would never let you go on your own." He spat into the hay. "He'd say you're touched in the head for even thinking about it."

"Your pop's not here, is he," said Murdoch evenly.

"He is not." Joe scanned the inside of the stable before he turned back to look at the men, his expression unreadable.

Another pause. George shifted uncomfortably under his load.

"You two came in on Alice and ol' Wilfrid," said Joe, staring at them. _Yes,_ George thought, _there is something most unsettling about this young man_. "Now Alice is a good horse," Joe continued. "She'll do right by you, that one. And Wilfrid, well, he's slow but he gets the job done."

"So we noticed," said Murdoch, and George nodded. The weight of the bags was starting to hurt.

Joe stared at Murdoch's arm in its sling. "You're shot, huh?" Murdoch grimaced in agreement. "So you'll need a good horse." He turned his piercing gaze to George. "And that's quite a load you got there. Don't see as how you can get it and yourself on a donkey, there."

George glanced at the detective. _Where is this going?_ he wondered silently. Murdoch shrugged almost imperceptibly. _I don't know, George._

"I should mention that Mack, who arrived with us, will no longer be in need of her mount," George ventured.

"So I hear," said the boy. "The Indians got her, huh."

"They did."

"Good. Pop kept cheating on Ma with her. When he wasn't beating on one of us at home, that is."

George saw Murdoch wince in sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear it," said Murdoch, and his tone dropped. "I believe I understand how hard that can be, coming from one's father."

Joe suddenly bared stained teeth in what George realized must be a grin. "Tell you what." He looked around furtively. "I like you two, and I don't like my pop. And you already paid for your trip. Hell with ol' Joseph. You take Alice and Wilfrid here, and I'll send Brown Betty with you too. I'll even help you pack all your kit onto Wilfrid and tether him up to Alice. Won't be the first time they've travelled that way. Just… the two of you got to get out of here fast as you can, 'fore old Joseph gets outa bed."

Murdoch blinked. "Are you sure, son?"

"Will you be safe?" George added.

"Old man ain't licked me since I got big enough to hit back. Knocked him out last time he tried. Broke his nose."

"What about your mother?" George worried.

"Never mind that. I can take care of her. Ol' Joseph's likely on a bender next few days, anyway. Maybe Alice and Betty will be back before he even knows they're gone." Joe plucked two bags off George's shoulders and carried them toward the donkey in the stall. George and Murdoch exchanged surprised, elated looks, and followed him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is highly unlikely that Haileybury had the telegraph in 1902, given that the railroad and the telegraph lines were almost always built together, and the whole plot of "All That Glitters" hinges on the yet-to-be-built railroad there. So is the telegram that Murdoch receives in that episode an anachronism? So be it. I'm going with it here.


	4. Camp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night on the road. Maybe things will be all right after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the people at the "Ojibwe Language and More" blog for the language lessons I drew on for this chapter. There are videos there with explanations of some of the nuance.

They're finally on the road!

I read a lot about Ojibwe and Algonquin languages and cultures for this chapter and the next one. I would be especially grateful for feedback from any Indigenous readers about the Indigenous characters and themes here, to be properly respectful of the peoples who have been here since time immemorial. We can't ever forget that Canada is a nation built on stolen land.

Thanks to DancingQueensStories on ff.net for catching a continuity error. I've fixed it. This is what happens when I write late at night.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Joe the odd young stablehand was so keen to get Murdoch and Crabtree on their way that they were on the road to North Bay within a quarter of an hour. Joe had been most helpful, tethering the donkey alongside Alice, and positioning a makeshift frame of narrow fenceposts between them so the two animals would not collide with each other. Murdoch needed only a bit of assistance in adjusting the reins so he could steer Alice one-handed, and the first leg of the trip was mercifully uneventful. George stopped trying to make idle conversation after about an hour. Murdoch's responses to any topic George raised were laconic at best and petulant at worst, and George finally realized that it was taking everything Murdoch had to stay atop his mount.

Whenever they came to a particularly narrow part of the road, George had to ride behind. Most of the time, he found himself alone with his thoughts. He did not particularly enjoy riding a horse. He felt like his mount could always tell how inexperienced he was. But as the sun crossed the sky and the miles receded behind them, George found himself less and less uncomfortable, as he and Brown Betty seemed to come to an understanding. Perhaps she sensed that things were not all well with her passenger and his friend. After a few hours he started to find a sense of comfort in the rhythm of her steps.

About five hours into their journey, both men agreed it was time to dismount for a short break. Murdoch sat silently on a fallen log while George opened a sack of moose pemmican and handed him some to chew on, and then laid a few hardtack biscuits in a shallow tin bowl with some water for them to soak.

"We can't stay here long, George."

"I know, sir."

"The hardtack will take at least a quarter hour to rehydrate."

George exhaled sharply. "Well we need the food, sir, and I shouldn't wish to break a tooth. And—" he gestured expansively "—I'm finding it quite a relief to stretch my legs. And I imagine you could use the rest. Now if you don't mind, I should like to relieve myself?"

"Very well, George. Do you need the trowel?"

"No, thank you, sir." He turned and headed a decent distance to ensure himself some privacy. He was at least twenty yards away when he stopped short: _what if Detective Murdoch needs the trowel?_ He didn't want to think about it. He could be matter-of-fact in dealing with all manner of foul substances in his professional life, but providing this sort of assistance to his superior officer was simply beyond the pale. _This shall not happen,_ George thought. _It's decided_.

George returned to find Murdoch poking at the hardtack, as if willing it to soften more quickly. He deemed it ready to eat well before it actually was, and so they consumed it. Both of them would spend quite some time back in the saddle trying to lick it out of their teeth.

George repacked the provisions into the bag, and Murdoch grudgingly accepted another three drops of the laudanum. He was already growing weary, and it took some effort from both of them to get him back onto Alice. They let the horses and Wilfrid drink their fill from the stream flowing next to the narrow road, and then they rode on in silence.

The sun was beginning to set when they came upon a familiar sight: the camp where they had stayed on the way north. The fire was burning, and there was at least one more tent than there had been three days before. George glanced over at Murdoch, who was clearly suffering, and despaired a little. _They said we could stay if the camp were empty, and it is most certainly not._

Murdoch spoke for the first time in hours. "They'll find space for us, George."

"I certainly don't know what we'll do if they don't, sir."

A lanky blond man was tending the fire; on noticing the newcomers on their horses, he walked over to greet them. "Evening," he said guardedly.

"A pleasant evening to you, my good man," George returned. "My name is George Crabtree, and this is—" he caught himself before he said "Detective" "—William Murdoch. We're on our way to North Bay. I suppose you're coming from there?" _The less detail, the better_, he suspected. The other man nodded, and George continued. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister…"

"Andrews." The man's expression was impassive as he looked them, the horses, and the donkey up and down. "Where's your guide?" he asked slowly, eyeing them with suspicion.

George had been steeling himself for this question. "We don't have one. My friend here was a lumberjack in these woods some years ago now, and he was confident that we could do without. We were hoping to find a tent in which we could lay out our bedrolls for this evening. I should hasten to add that the innkeeper in Haileybury secured permission from the local Indian guides for us to stay here."

"He was confident, was he?" Andrews waved a thumb at Murdoch. "He all right?"

George glanced at the detective. "Sir?" Murdoch was pale with fatigue, hunched over his mount's neck. He looked awful.

"Yes, George."

"Are you quite well?"

"I'm _fine_, George." He did not lift his head. "Would you stop asking."

"Sir, maybe you'd better get off your horse." George dismounted his own and led her toward Murdoch's mount in case he had to catch the man on his way down.

"That's a good idea, George," he said haltingly. He dismounted so ungracefully that George did indeed end up bearing most of his weight to the ground, but he did land on his feet. He stood for a moment, and George let him go when he seemed steady enough. Without warning he took a few tentative steps, putting himself just out of George's reach, and walked straight into a tree root. He lost his balance and tried to catch himself with his left hand, realizing too late that it was not there. He fell, hard, onto his side.

"Sir!" cried George. Murdoch lay still, and moaned. George looked desperately at the reins of the two horses in his hands, trying to decide whether to let them go so he could attend to Murdoch. They were tired, so they probably would not go far, but George did not wish to take the risk.

"I'm all right, George. Give me a moment," Murdoch panted, and did not move.

"Mr. Andrews." George addressed the stranger urgently. "Would you be so kind as to hold these horses while I see to my friend."

Andrews studied them both some more, and then shook his head and gave a guttural laugh as he reached out for the reins. George gratefully handed them over, and practically lunged toward Murdoch, crouching down next to him.

"I suppose I can tie them up for you. You started out on the road with him like this?" George nodded grimly. "Well you're certainly the biggest pair of fools I've ever seen."

George winced a little as he helped Murdoch roll over onto his back. "Aye, that we are. We are fools indeed. Fools in fairly desperate need of a place of safety for the night." He gestured toward Murdoch, then looked at Andrews, a plaintive expression on his face. "Please."

Andrew's countenance softened. "All right, though I'm not sure as to what I can do for you. I'm just another traveller, but I can at least put in a word for you. I think there's an extra tent. Two of our party cancelled at the last minute. We'll see what Bill says."

"Bill?" George asked quizzically.

"Our guide."

"Ah," said George. "Thank you, sir. Much appreciated." He touched Murdoch's shoulder and spoke to him quietly. "Sir!"

"Yes, George." Murdoch's breath was coming in uneven, shallow gasps.

"Are you quite all—" he broke off, remembering Murdoch's peevish demand that he stop asking. And he hardly needed ask, anyway: it was clear Murdoch was not all right. "Sir. You're having trouble breathing."

"I'm fine, George." George was getting sick of that sentence. "I just knocked the wind out of myself. Help me up, will you?"

* * *

Murdoch dozed between coughing fits, propped up next to the fire, while George paced back and forth awaiting the return of Andrews' guide and the rest of his party. He was so keyed up that he didn't hear them approach, and nearly jumped out of his skin when a deep voice boomed, "What have we here, then?"

George was catching his breath from the fright when he heard Murdoch speak. The detective had awakened instantly, and turned to the tall man who was apparently the guide. "_Kwekwe_," he said as he removed his hat and inclined his head.

"_Kwekwe_," the man said, and raised an eyebrow.

Murdoch tried to push himself up to shake hands, but succeeded only in sparking another bout of coughing. He lay back down and waited for it to subside, the tall man watching expectantly. He finally managed, "William Murdoch _nindizinikaaz_. _Gaawiin ningikenmaasii nindoodem. _Nova Scotia _nindoonjibaa_. Toronto _nindaa_." The guide looked at him approvingly, and nodded.

George stared at him, a little stunned. He had heard the detective's fluent French many times, but this was new. "Sir?" he whispered.

"Here you introduce yourself with your name, your clan, where you're from, where you live," Murdoch said. "I told him I don't know my clan."

The man—Bill?—turned his attention to George, who cleared his throat and looked around nervously. He ventured, "Ah, I'm George Crabtree." He gestured at himself. "My clan? I don't know. Flower Hill, maybe?" he said with a wry half-smile, and shrugged. "I'm from, uh, Toronto and Newfoundland, and I live in Toronto. Toronto _nindaa_? Was that the word?"

The guide nodded again, apparently satisfied. He said several sentences in Algonquin; George could catch only a few words. _Bill White. Matachewan. _He continued in English: "My name is Bill White. My Algonquin name is Myeengun."

"'Little Wolf,'" said Murdoch.

"Yes. I'm from the Bear Clan. My people are the Matachewan. I come from Gowganda, and I live around Timiskaming. Call me Bill. What brings you here?"

George cleared his throat nervously and looked at Murdoch, who nodded at him. He tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible. "We're travelling south to North Bay. We need to get the train home to Toronto. My friend here is injured. He was a lumberjack in these woods years ago, and he believed we could make our way to North Bay without assistance."

Bill's eyes crinkled in amusement. "Did he, then."

"I just need some sleep," Murdoch grumbled.

"The two of you look as if you could use more than that."

"That is quite true, sir," George responded, still wide-eyed. "We would be most grateful for a place to lay out our bedrolls so my friend here can get some rest."

Andrews cut in. "It seems the innkeeper in Haileybury promised them any available space here."

"He demanded a handsome sum from us in exchange," George muttered.

"Did he, then," Bill said again. He paused for a moment. George listened to his own heart pounding in his ears. "All right. You can have that tent over there, for tonight." He gestured to a small one that had seen better days.

One of the other men, a strapping middle-aged fellow with a long face, twinkling eyes, and a mop of curly brown hair, spoke amiably. George had hardly noticed him or the large fish that he was carrying. "And when you're set up, come on back and we'll feed you miserable bastards."

George nearly wept with relief. "Thank you, sirs. Thank you. We are most thankful, aren't we, sir," he prompted Murdoch.

"_Meegwetch,_ Myeengun," said Murdoch. "_Meegwetch._ And thank you, gentlemen" He coughed again. George did not like the sound of that cough at all.

George headed quickly over to old Wilfrid to retrieve the bags and the bedrolls, and he began lugging them to the tent. It was only then that he noticed the three other men besides the fish-bearer who had arrived back at the camp with Bill. All of them were white, of various ages. One, sporting an impeccably tailored tweed Norfolk jacket and a rifle, held a dead grouse by its ankles. He appeared most uncomfortable to be in the woods, and George decided he was a bit of a toff. The others, like Andrews, looked like labourers who were more than accustomed to very basic accommodation. George decided the rest of the introductions could wait until the sleeping quarters were ready.

One of the other men, a small but muscular ginger man of about twenty-five, was next to him instantly, cheerfully relieving him of more than half his load. "And a good evening to you, George Crabtree. I'm also a George! George Stewart!" he introduced himself brightly. His accent was Canadian, rural southern Ontario, George noted automatically. He looked genuine enough, but something about him put George's hackles up.

"Ah, hello, Mister Stewart. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You really needn't…" George looked down at the bags—the other George was bearing them easily, as if they weighed nothing—and trailed off.

"Think nothing of it!" enthused Stewart. "And for heaven's sake call me George." He started off toward the empty tent. He was so fast that George Crabtree could hardly keep up with him. All at once George was inside the tent catching bags and bedrolls, and laying out a bunk for the detective. George Stewart remained outside, and it turned out he was a talker, burbling on about working as a farmhand outside Haileybury and how the soil was of surprisingly high quality in some areas. His mother had been heartbroken to see him leave Chatham, but he had an adventurous spirit, he did, and he was going to work his way around all the farms in Ontario and Quebec that would have him. Yes indeed, he was going to see more of the world than his own little corner of it.

George was baffled. Had this fellow never read of Egypt, or London, or Paris? Did he not dream of more interesting locales than _farms_? He boggled at George Stewart's definition of "seeing the world," and shook his head in genial disbelief. Perhaps the man was a decent sort after all, if a bit small-minded. Now if he would just stop prattling on…


	5. A Simple Meal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George and William meet the other men at the camp. Some are good company; others, not so much. Who can be trusted?

By the time George returned to the campfire, the fish was nearly cooked, and Andrews was chopping some roots and leaves that George didn't recognize. The other George was chattering away, holding forth at length about the suitability of various crops to the climate this far north, and describing how the shorter growing season meant the potatoes here were much smaller at harvest than the ones he had dug up in Listowel. Now, the red potatoes in Listowel were really quite delicious, especially if harvested new and roasted in a hot oven with a bit of rosemary and salt. He would dearly love to have some of those potatoes right now, he would. Now in Gravenhurst, though, the best potatoes to his mind were the yellow ones. Those were particularly well-suited for boiling. Murdoch shot George a resigned look, and George just nodded tiredly. He wanted a potato. A nice, hot baked potato. Perhaps with a generous dollop of soured cream.

The long-faced fellow introduced himself as John Sparks, known to his friends as "Sparky." A builder by trade, Sparks was on his way to Haileybury to start scouting out land for new homes and commercial ventures that would inevitably be needed after the arrival of the railway. Yes, he had heard about the possible rerouting, but he would take his chances. It made no sense, after all! Surely clearer heads would prevail at Queen's Park, he avowed. He was a pleasant man, if a bit earthy in his choice of language, and he was the only one of the travellers to inquire solicitously about Murdoch's condition. George was most surprised to hear Murdoch dismiss his wound as the result of a hunting accident, but then he supposed the detective was erring on the side of caution, lest word about the shot copper and his companion reach their host somehow.

The toff, who apparently refused to sit down on the log by the fire, announced that he was Geert Van Der Beek, of Mimico. The name _Van Der Beek_ was three separate words, all capitalised, he declared archly. His declaration was met with rolled eyes and sighing from the other men who had travelled with him all day: they had clearly long since had their fill of him. The more he continued, the more George understood why. Mister Van Der Beek was eager to announce that all he had wanted was to hunt some game, and he had understood that the wildlife in the area was quite plentiful, just ripe for the taking. Why on Earth was there no hunting lodge nearby? And he wished it known that he was most put out by the terribly poor quality of the available accommodations—he had never in his life been forced to sleep under anything but a solid roof, let alone in a _tent, _on the cold hard ground! And hadn't the station agent understood that he had a touch of rheumatism that would most certainly be aggravated by such deplorable conditions? And the noise, and the _filth_. How could he have ended up here? How could decent, God-fearing people possibly manage in such a frightful place?

Van Der Beek and the other George continued to jabber, both talking incessantly without listening to the other, and both remaining quite oblivious to the wheezing, grey-faced Murdoch next to the fire. George's eyelid started to twitch.

The voluble men finally fell silent, at least for a time, once Bill dug a stack of plates out of a bag and Andrews filled them with generous pieces of fish and the unfamiliar vegetables. Murdoch correctly identified them as cattail roots and broadleaf plantain, foraged from the edge of the water and the forest floor. George decided that sautéed in a bit of lard, they weren't half bad. Indeed, he found the entire meal, simple though it was, to be most satisfying.

For a time the camp was quiet, save for the sound of smacking lips and Murdoch's occasional cough. George handed him the canteen and he took a few generous draughts. "George, I think I should like to go to bed now," Murdoch told him quietly.

"By all means, sir. Let me assist you." He moved to Murdoch's side to help him up, and suddenly George Stewart materialized again, supporting Murdoch's weight from the other side as he rose from the ground. _Well, I suppose he's helpful_, thought George, at least until the younger man launched into a long disquisition on the finer points of veterinary care for ailing cattle.

The two men got Murdoch to the entrance of the tent, and he made his painful way inside, lying down on his back and using his feet to scoot inward. The position and the effort sparked an extended coughing fit, and Murdoch's face contorted in agony. George Stewart mercifully took his leave, and Murdoch and George were alone in their small tent.

"I suppose I should give you my pillow, sir," George said sadly. Murdoch coughed uncontrollably in response. George crawled into the tent and raised Murdoch's head long enough to prop him up on a couple of bags and the magnificent, faithful pillow. He hoped Murdoch would properly appreciate the sacrifice he was making for the night.

With Murdoch reclining more comfortably on his bedroll, George went digging for the laudanum. There wasn't much left, probably just enough to get them home tomorrow if he rationed the doses. He pondered briefly before he administered seven drops—not the full dose of ten, but enough to bring Murdoch some relief and help with his sleep.

Murdoch shuddered at the bitter taste. "I liked the cinnamon better," he said wistfully.

"Well the flavour was the only thing to recommend that dreadful stuff at the inn," replied George. "I certainly shouldn't ever want to give you any more of it. I shouldn't wish to give _anyone_ that swill. You know, sir, I'm not sure it's even right for something that potent to be so readily available. Such a substance could do very great harm if not used with prudence and care."

"Indeed, George." Murdoch's eyes were closed, and George reached over to unbutton his shirt and change the gauze on his wound. "No!" Murdoch stopped him, catching his wrist. "Leave it. We can take care of it in the morning."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"I hardly know why, but the thought of anyone touching my chest at the moment is most distressing to me."

"Very well, then, sir, I'll leave it alone. I suppose it will be easier to manage in better light."

"It will indeed. Why don't you go back out to the fire and continue to make yourself acquainted with the gentlemen camping with us? I find myself most curious to know more about them."

"Sir, that's not necessary. We're not investigating anything right now."

"Nevertheless, I am intrigued."

"Right, I suppose I can humour you for a short while, sir," George said wearily, and crawled out of the tent to return to his spot by the fire. He did appreciate the smell of wood smoke—it evoked fond memories of his childhood.

George Stewart and Mister Van Der Beek continued to blather at each other, and George Crabtree found himself utterly lacking in the capacity to concentrate on their conversation—no, not conversation. Simultaneous monologues. Instead, he tried to make small talk with the others while he waited for Murdoch's laudanum to kick in. Sparks was the only one interested in chatting: Andrews seemed the type to keep to himself, and Bill was nowhere to be seen. Sparks mentioned that Bill's wife was along, but the party had hardly seen her, as she had spent much of the day wandering off from the group and then reappearing hours later with bags full of plants. Sparks was a friendly man, and an engaging conversationalist; George would not have been averse to drinking pints with him at the pub. After about fifteen minutes, though, he excused himself and went back to check on Murdoch before he bedded down himself.

George checked Murdoch's pupils with the flashlight, and found them quite constricted. Murdoch wore a serene expression, and he was very sleepy. "I'm going to check your wound now, sir," he told him.

Murdoch turned his head toward George very slowly. "Yes, I suppose that's for the best."

"Yes, sir," George told him, easing him out of his sling, unbuttoning his shirt, and carefully untying the bandage that held the gauze in place. The area around the wound was bruised and swollen, but the puncture itself looked to be healing well enough. George unwound a bit more gauze from their small supply and applied it to Murdoch's chest before he wrapped the bandage around it again, buttoned his shirt, and helped him find a comfortable position for sleep.

"You're a good nurse, George," Murdoch murmured.

"Thank you, sir. I know I'm no Doctor Ogden."

Murdoch smiled a little, his eyes still closed. "That you are not, George. But you are an excellent George Crabtree."


	6. A Bad Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murdoch can't breathe, George is at a loss, and help comes from an unexpected source.

It was another hour before the party around the fire broke up and the other travellers finally went to bed. At about 2:00 a log on the fire popped, and Murdoch started awake. "Julia? Julia!" he cried out. His throat was dry, and speaking caused him to wheeze. The wheeze led to a bout of barking coughs punctuated by the occasional grunt or moan. "Julia!" he tried again.

George was already awake—there was no way he was getting any sleep, what with his lack of pillow, not to mention the incessant, deeply worrisome ambient noise. "Sir. Sir. Shh. Hush, sir. Sir. Julia's not here, sir. It's George. We're in a tent in the woods, sir."

"George! What are we doing in the woods? Where's Julia?" Murdoch stared at him in confusion through the dim light.

_Damn it all_, thought George. _Delirium again?_ "We're coming home from Haileybury, sir," he answered patiently. "The inspector sent us to investigate the death of Edward Graham."

"Why… why do I hurt so much?" he asked, clutching his left arm to himself.

"You were shot, sir. Shot in the chest. The medicine woman took the bullet out but it's still going to be sore."

"Sore, George." Murdoch's eyes were glazed with pain, and he was gasping for breath.

"I suppose that must sound a bit of an understatement. Let me get you some laudanum, sir," George whispered.

"Laudanum, George! Why on Earth would we have that in the woods?"

_Yes, the delirium again,_ George thought gloomily. _Damn it. I was sure he was through the worst. He should not be travelling!_ He sighed. "The innkeeper keeps a supply. He told me there's quite a demand for such preparations up in these parts."

"The innkeeper." Murdoch thought for a moment, a hint of panic in his eye. "Were we at an inn?"

"Yes, sir. In Haileybury. We spent last night there."

"Haileybury. We… we were going there to investigate the death of Edward Graham. George! We have to get to Haileybury!" He tried to sit up, and George caught him and gently pushed him back down.

"Sir. It's all right. We've already come from there. We solved the murder. We're on our way back to North Bay."

"North Bay," said Murdoch, puzzled and anxious, just before another fit of wheezy coughing wracked him. As he shook, George dug through one of the bags and fished out the small brown bottle of liquid and a box of matches.

"Here's the laudanum, sir," he said softly. He lit a match and held it in his teeth while he unscrewed the lid of the bottle and pulled the liquid into the eyedropper. He blew out the match, still holding it in his mouth, before it could burn his lips. The gibbous moon and the last of the campfire gave enough light that he could make out the detective, wait for a break in his coughing, and squeeze exactly six drops of the laudanum into his mouth. "There you go, sir," he whispered, and closed the bottle before he slid it back into the bag. Murdoch lay back and waited, and George tried again, and failed again, to sleep. What were they going to do in the morning?

He had long since given up on trying to count sheep, having reached several thousand the previous night to no avail, and instead tried to focus on Murdoch's ragged breaths. They were at a relatively constant rate, probably fast enough to be worrisome, and so a count of them would enable him to calculate elapsed time. _Although I suppose that trying to calculate anything is perhaps less than conducive to the relaxed state needed for sleep_, he was musing at about the fifteen-minute mark, when Murdoch's breath suddenly hitched and the coughing started again.

A shadow appeared at the tent door. "Murdoch?" a man's voice inquired. George was racking his brain to try to remember whom that voice belonged to when the tent flap opened, and Andrews peered in.

"Andrews!" George was quite surprised. Not much about the taciturn man had registered with him, and he had no idea what to make of his presence.

"Crabtree," Andrews greeted him quietly. "I can help your friend."

George furrowed his brow. He had no idea whether he could trust this man, but all he himself had to help Murdoch was more laudanum, and it was increasingly clear that the laudanum was not enough. "Uh…" George began. "How?"

"Let me in and I'll show you."

George weighed the options. He could let this man in, potentially opening them to theft or worse. He could leave him outside, keeping them safe from any external threat, but leaving his friend gasping and agonized and possibly doomed, depending on how bad the wound had become. He was torn.

Finally he came to a decision. He could not bring himself to watch William Murdoch suffer when help might be at hand. He had to believe the offer and the man were genuine, and there really was something Andrews could do to ease Murdoch's misery. He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer, then said, "Well, come in, then."

Andrews crawled into the tent, and George shifted over as far as he could. "He keeps coughing," Andrews said.

"Yes, I noticed." The lack of sleep and the unfortunate circumstances were making George peevish.

"Shot?"

"Yes," Murdoch wheezed, "my chest. Left side. Feels tight. Very tight."

"Let me see," said Andrews.

"Now wait just one minute," George protested. "What exactly are you planning to do with my friend here?"

"I've spent a lot of time in these woods," Andrews replied cryptically. "Got hurt more than once. The locals took care of me, showed me things."

"What kind of things?" George asked, a bit indignant.

"Plants, tools, this and that," Andrews said as he held two fingers to Murdoch's neck to check his pulse. He made a noise of disapproval. "You got any light?"

"Pardon?" said George.

"Light. I need light," Andrews said as Murdoch coughed again, his right hand clutching at the wound on his chest as his breath came in short gasps. George obligingly produced the flashlight, and turned it on.

Andrews laid a hand on Murdoch's forehead, and made the same disapproving sound. George was struck by how pale the detective looked. Doctor Ogden is going to have my hide, he thought grimly. Andrews took the flashlight from him, and shone it in Murdoch's face, checking his pupils. He recoiled slightly in apparent disgust. "What did you give him?"

"Laudanum," he said defensively. "It's all I have for him. Well, that and some gauze. Cost a small fortune, it did."

Andrews rolled his eyes. "Laudanum. Ridiculous." George opened his mouth to protest, and Andrews held up a hand. "Everything you need is right outside." He began unbuttoning Murdoch's shirt.

George was flummoxed, and was working himself into a bit of a lather when Murdoch spoke in a brief moment of lucidity. "It's all right, George. There are a lot of medicines here in the woods, if you know where to look."

"Well that's as may be, sir, but does this man know what he's doing?"

"I think we have to assume that he does, George." Murdoch's breath hitched as Andrews removed the bandage and began to palpate his chest.

George noticed it was even more swollen than earlier. Andrews moved diagnostic fingers over his ribs and around the wound, laid an ear to his chest to listen to his breath, and abruptly left the tent.

"Sir?" George whispered. "What's he going to do?"

Murdoch smiled groggily. "I don't know, George," he said.

"The swelling in your chest and your difficulty breathing are quite worrisome, sir. I must say you're looking quite poorly." On impulse he reached out a hand to Murdoch's sweaty forehead, and flinched. "You're feverish! Oh, dear Lord. Oh, God." He sank back, feeling a quick shudder of despair. How can things be even worse than last night?

"I'm quite all right, George. You needn't concern yourself," Murdoch wheezed pleasantly.

That damned laudanum, George thought angrily, and something within him snapped. "Sir!" he hissed. "You are most certainly not quite all right! You've been shot, you spent eleven hours on a horse today, you couldn't even stand upright this evening, you fell and very likely injured yourself more severely—I mean, come now, sir, how do we know you didn't tear something inside your chest when you fell after getting down from old Alice?" He was building up a good head of steam. "What if the bullet weakened a blood vessel, and if you'd stayed put it would have repaired itself, but you've pushed yourself so hard that it's burst?" He was gesturing so frenetically in the tight quarters that he nearly hit Murdoch in the face.

"George." Murdoch's expression grew hooded. "You're not helping."

"I'm just being realistic, sir! This is quite the terrible predicament you've put us in! There's something badly wrong with you, and we're a whole day's ride from a hospital, and just what do we know about this Andrews and his plants?" George could feel himself turning pink.

The tent flap opened again, and Andrews crawled back in, this time bearing a bundle wrapped in a deer skin. "Move," he said gruffly.

George glared at him. "I beg your pardon, my good man," he said, drawing himself up.

"Do you want my help, or not?" Andrews demanded. "I tell you, I know what I'm doing. Fixed up a lot of folks out here, I have."

"So you have medical training, then. A qualification."

"Not so's you'd consider it such, no. I offered help 'cause your friend here don't sound like he'll see the morning. But if a piece of paper's what's important to you, I can go." Andrews started to stand up.

"All right, all right." George snorted. "Come in." He felt his pulse beating in his temple.

"You're welcome," Andrews said acidly as he crawled in and George shifted out of the way. Andrews settled next to Murdoch while George, holding the flashlight for him, made himself as small as he could. The tent was dreadfully cramped.

Andrews unfolded the bundle to reveal a short stick with some pointy white objects attached to one end, a large chunk of dried moss, a few strips of deer hide in various widths and lengths, and a collection of bottles and jars. He opened one of the jars, sniffed at the contents, wrinkled his nose, and reached in for a thick, greasy brown salve that he rubbed on Murdoch's chest, over and around the wound. He then picked up the stick, and George got a better look. The sharp white objects attached to it were strangely familiar. It took him a moment to place them: pike teeth. He had nearly impaled his finger on one when he and Mack were gutting the fish he had caught three nights before.

He was just about to ask what exactly Andrews intended to do with that stick full of pike teeth, when the blond man lifted it up above Murdoch's heaving chest, waited for a pause between shallow, gasping breaths, and brought it back down sharply, plunging the teeth into his skin.

George yelped more loudly than Murdoch did. "What are you _doing_?" he squeaked in surprise, ready to fight, but first he had to get those awful teeth out of Murdoch's chest. His lunged for the stick, but Andrews, seemingly anticipating his movement, caught his wrist and held him back. "No! You have to take it out slowly," he scolded George as he lifted the stick gently himself, and laid it, bloodied teeth and all, back on the leather of the bundle. Pink-tinged fluid began to rush out of Murdoch's chest. Andrews caught it with the moss, which collected the fluid like a sponge. "Hold that there," he ordered George.

George was getting ready to protest when he noticed that Murdoch's breathing was starting to ease as the sponge became saturated with whatever was draining out of him. George was utterly nonplussed. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but found himself quite speechless. He held the moss as he'd been instructed, and waited as Andrews sat Murdoch up and wrapped a wide strip of deer hide around him, threading it beneath his shirt and behind his back. "Here," he said to George, and handed him a new piece of moss. George shrugged in confusion.

"You take the wet one off and put this one on," Andrews said impatiently. George did as he was told, and Andrews brought the deer hide over the moss to hold it in place. George withdrew his hand, and Andrews secured the hide behind Murdoch's back, then buttoned his shirt back up and lowered him back onto the pillow.

"What did you do?" George demanded, wide-eyed.

"Drained his chest, what did it look like?" Andrews said offhandedly as he gathered his jars and bottles and the stick and the rest of the moss back onto the deer skin. George looked at the wet moss quizzically, and Andrews picked it up, opened the tent flap, and flung the soggy mess onto the fire.

"Well what was wrong with him?" George asked, still astonished.

"Just like you said. You lot probably made the bullet hole worse by refusing to stay put. Chest was full of fluid, crushing his lung. He was suffocating. Like I said, you boys sure are fools, travelling with him like this." He unscrewed the lid of a small bottle. The contents smelled green to George, if green had a smell. "Drink this," Andrews said, pushing it at Murdoch.

"What is it?" George asked, sceptically.

"Dandelion extract in wine. Stops infection."

"Julia will want to analyse that," Murdoch murmured. He drank the contents of the bottle obediently, then frowned, lost in opium-addled thought. Finally he spoke. "Perhaps… perhaps we should have remained in Haileybury, George."

George's eyes flashed in anger in the dim light. "Oh so _now_ you decide that! Now while we're stuck out here in God's country two days from home! That's what I told you, sir! I told you that repeatedly and you didn't listen!"

"I'm sorry, George. I should listen to you more." Murdoch was contrite.

"You certainly should, sir. I must say your pigheadedness has been tempting me to leave you here." George's voice rose, and he folded his arms. It would take time before he was ready to accept Murdoch's apology.

Murdoch looked so stricken by George's outburst that George immediately apologised himself, though, realising he'd gone too far. "I'm sorry, sir. I'd never leave you here. Your stubbornness is just… just so _frustrating_."

A muffled voice came from another tent. "Will you lot shut up with your little tiff? Some of us are trying to sleep."

"Sorry!" George apologised again, more loudly this time, and fell silent. Andrews remained inside the tent, flashlight shining on Murdoch's rising and falling chest, until he was satisfied that his breathing had steadied and his colour was starting to improve. "There," he said neutrally, and headed for the door of the tent. "Call me back in if he gets worse again," he whispered as he departed.

"Are you quite all right, sir?" George asked for what seemed like the thousandth time, as quietly as he could.

"I can breathe a lot more easily," Murdoch said slowly, and smiled. "This is quite, uh, quite the relief, George."

"I'm glad, sir."

"I think I'll sleep now."

"Very well, then, sir, you do that, and I shall endeavour to do the same. Sweet dreams." George switched off the flashlight, climbed back onto his bedroll, and lay on his back to wait for sleep, though it did not seem likely that it would come soon. He missed his pillow, and he was going to be boggling about Andrews and his actions for quite some time. The wolves howled in the distance again, and he heard a branch snap nearby. Murdoch started to snore.


	7. Reckonings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road again, or not? Murdoch is in no condition to travel.

George's sleep was fitful, and he was wide awake well before first light. He lay still for some time, trying to make sense of the events of the wee hours. He was at first unsure of whether their visitor had been real or a dream, at least until he listened carefully to his companion. There was no more coughing, no more hitched gasps for air, just even, steady breathing that George wouldn't have heard unless he was listening for it. Murdoch's colour was better, too. George impulsively reached out and put a palm on his forehead. No fever. George released the breath he had not known he was holding.

As some tension left him, it dawned on him how very much he ached. His calves felt like the saddle had rubbed them raw, and his hands bore blisters from the reins. The muscles in his legs and backside sang in hot complaint, and his neck and upper back were so stiff he could hardly turn his head. The prospect of another full day atop Brown Betty, and then nine more hours sitting upright on a rickety, bumpy train, was nearly enough to make him weep. Riding on Wilfrid hadn't hurt nearly so much as riding on Betty did.

Murdoch stirred.

"Sir?" George ventured.

"Good morning, George," Murdoch replied blearily.

"Good morning, sir." _Good. He isn't asking for Doctor Ogden_. "How are you keeping, sir? And please don't say you're fine."

Murdoch smiled a little, and thought for a moment. "I suppose I'm all right, considering. I'm sore, but I can breathe."

"I'm quite pleased to hear it, sir. You were practically lying on Alice's neck when we rode in last night."

"I suppose I was. It was a long day."

"Yes, sir."

They both lay on their backs, staring at the tent roof, listening to the birds begin their songs. George contemplated how he could convince the detective to stay put here for at least one more day. He could hardly abide the thought of more time on a horse, or even a donkey, today or perhaps ever.

A rifle shot rang out, at distressingly close range.

The two policemen tensed automatically. Murdoch tried to push himself up, and George laid a hand on his chest to push him back down. "Sir. You stay here. I'll go investigate."

Murdoch frowned, and nodded with resignation. "Be careful, George."

George braced himself against the creaking ache of his entire body, and scrambled out of the tent. Andrews, Sparks, and George Stewart were all standing in the centre of the campsite. "Van Der Beek? Bill?" Constable Crabtree asked immediately.

"Bill went bow hunting, but Van Der Beek we don't know," said Sparks.

"Right, then," Crabtree declared. "All of you. Which way did the shot come from?"

All three men raised their hands to point in the general direction of the sunrise. They stood looking toward where they were pointing when another shot rang out.

"There," said Crabtree. "Let's go."

Sparks and Andrews looked stunned, and George Stewart emitted a high-pitched squeal. "Go?" he demanded. "Toward it?"

George Crabtree exhaled sharply and nodded. "Of course! One of your party is missing, and we need ensure no one is hurt! Now is any of you with me, or do I have to go by myself?"

Sparks stepped forward. "Let's go, Crab." Crab? wondered George. _Should I start calling him "Spar"?_

Andrews shook his head and retreated back toward his tent. "Not my problem 'til someone shows up bleeding," he muttered.

"Very well, then, Mister Sparks, let's go." The two men rushed into the woods, while George Stewart stayed put, nearly dancing in apoplexy. "Run toward a gunshot! You men are quite out of your minds! What could you possibly be thinking?" Crabtree, rolling his eyes as George Stewart continued his frothing, ran with Sparks until they heard yet another shot. They stopped for a brief moment, peering through the trees to see if they could spot anyone. Both of them called out: "Van Der Beek! Van Der Beek!"

Van Der Beek shouted back, sounding rather out of sorts. "Here! Mister Sparks?"

Crabtree pushed his way past a few more trees toward the stream. There was Mister Van Der Beek, standing in the middle, looking entirely bewildered by the other two men's clear agitation.

"What are you doing?" George bellowed.

"Why, catching fish, of course," Van Der Beek answered blankly, and gestured to two large pike lying on the ground.

George stood slack-jawed, staring at the Mimico toff. "Fishing," he repeated. "With a rifle."

"But of course! As you can see, with some success." He gestured at the fish on the bank of the stream. Sparks tried to hold back a snicker, but his mirth got the better of him. Soon he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. He slapped George on the shoulder, tears streaming down his face. "My God, these city boys."

George was more angry than amused. His fuse was very short, and he had no time for posh dandies who knew even less about the wilderness than he did. He sputtered. "I ought to arrest you for…"

"For what?" Van Der Beek demanded defensively.

"For disturbing the peace! For reckless endangerment!"

"Disturbing the peace? We're miles from any sort of peaceful civilisation! And whom could I possibly be endangering?" Van Der Beek scoffed. "And on whose authority would you be arresting me, anyway?"

George stopped short. Right. They don't know we're with the constabulary. Drat it all. He reddened. "Right, well, never mind that. Just, for the love of Pete, stop shooting the fish! Everyone knows that's no way to catch them, and you've plenty to feed everyone now anyway."

Sparks was still laughing. "Come along, then, Geert," he called, practically gargling the unfamiliar name.

Van Der Beek bristled. "I shan't dignify that mockery with a response," he said haughtily as he waded out of the stream.

"Well you just did, didn't you?" Sparks guffawed. George entertained a brief, secret thrill to watch Sparks take the Dutchman down a peg or two, but thought better of antagonizing him further himself. The man did have a rifle, after all. Scowling, he traipsed over to the edge of the stream and retrieved the two fish.

"Right, off with us, then," he announced as he strode back toward the camp. The fish were bleeding on him, and he had slept very poorly once again, and he was quite out of patience.

* * *

"It was quite a sight, sir. Standing there in the middle of the creek, shooting straight down! And he complained that the fish weren't where they appeared to be!" George kept his voice low, hoping only Murdoch could hear him.

"Of course they weren't, George. The angle of refraction would cause the appearance of the fish to…"

"Sir."

"Well, if I've taught you well, you could certainly explain it to Mister Van Der Beek."

"Could I, sir." George shot a withering look at the detective. "I believe there are more pressing matters at hand here than educating a rich nincompoop about basic physics. There is the matter of what we are going to do with you."

"I'm fine, George."

George had quite had his fill of being told Murdoch was fine, or quite all right, or any other permutation of "fit to travel." He stared at the detective in indignation. "Sir. Last night you nearly suffocated from a chest full of fluid. Had we been in the city, you would likely have ended up under anaesthesia having emergency surgery. Had Mister Andrews not been here, it is quite possible that you would have _died_. You should be flat on your back in the hospital, or at the very least in a real bed under a solid roof. The forest floor is no place for an injured man."

"That may be the case, George. But Mister Andrews does seem to have done an exemplary job with the tools at hand." Murdoch moved his right hand experimentally over the deer hide and the moss on his chest.

"And I'm glad for it, sir. But we must stop tempting fate!" George was sitting cross-legged on his side of the tent, extending one leg at a time to try to stretch out his aching muscles. He needed to be ready for whatever other ridiculousness the day might bring. With his good arm, Murdoch pushed himself up to a seated position, and George noticed his eyes glaze over. "Sir?" he asked anxiously as Murdoch's arm began to shake under his weight. He caught the detective just as his elbow gave out, and lowered him back onto the bedroll. _That's it,_ he thought angrily.

The detective had caused them both much grief by insisting that he was "quite all right," and George would no longer have it. William Murdoch was too ill to ride on horseback even an inch farther, today and likely tomorrow as well, and George would certainly no longer continue to support him in such foolhardy attempts to get home before he was well enough to travel. He would brook no further argument on the subject. Yes. That was exactly what he was going to say.

He drew a breath. "Sir! You are not fine. I confess you gave me quite a fright last night, and you are most certainly not in any condition to mount a horse, let alone travel on one—"

Murdoch held up a hand, and George paused.

"George."

"Yes, sir."

"I… I think we should stay here at least another night, George."

George blinked.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Maybe even two. I'm clearly not in any condition to be on a horse."

The wind that had been filling George's sails vanished in a puff. "Sir, I… uh. Sir?"

"Now I know you were likely going to insist that we continue our journey today…" Murdoch began earnestly.

George was adrift in strange seas. He regarded Murdoch as if he were some sort of lake monster (such an implausible idea, a monster living in a lake). "Are you quite stunned, sir? When have I ever suggested that we should travel with you in your current state? I was just about to demand that we stay here!"

Murdoch held George's gaze a little longer, and then broke into a most unexpected grin. "I know, George. For once I agree with you. Last night was quite unpleasant."

George exhaled, and slumped onto his bedroll in relief. "Oh, thank God, sir. You were having me on. And yes. Yes, it was. Don't do that, sir." He must be feeling better if he's teasing me.

Murdoch smiled a moment longer, then turned serious. "I see no alternative but to remain here until I am sufficiently recovered to continue our journey."

"Well that's certainly a change of heart, sir, and one I emphatically welcome. May I ask what brought it on?"

Murdoch's tone dropped, and his expression was sad. "I can't even sit up, George. There's only so much a human body can do."

"I'm most relieved to hear you say so, sir. We all have our limits."

Murdoch nodded ruefully. "We do. I am concerned, though, that Julia will worry if she does not hear from us from North Bay by tonight."

George pondered for a moment. "Well, fiddlesticks. You're right, sir." Leave it to the detective to think things farther through, he mused. What else will happen when we stay? Oh, right. "There's also the matter of Migizi Pimise and his men. Someone who knows about us will likely come through here from the north in the next day or two, and I fear our presence will not be received well."

"I don't suppose disguising ourselves would fool anyone," Murdoch said drily, and smiled again.

George snorted. "Hardly, sir."

They both lay there for a few moments, considering their options. None was appealing. George was most gratified that the detective was finally seeing reason about his condition, but it was likely dangerous to remain at the camp. He was trying to think of any other possibilities when Murdoch sobered suddenly, appearing to remember something. He turned to look at his companion.

"George? Do I recall correctly that you were shouting at me during the night?"

George took a deep breath, and then set his mouth in a thin line. "I was doing my utmost not to shout, sir."

Murdoch squinted, trying to retrieve the memory. "Oh, how I hate laudanum, George."

"Sir?"

"I can't remember. You were agitated. What were you saying?"

George closed his eyes and tried to think how to frame his answer diplomatically. "Well, I suppose I was quite vexed by the situation."

"You said I was pigheaded, George." Murdoch's tone was even.

"Perhaps I did, sir." George waited.

"Julia would likely agree with you."

"Would she then, sir." A corner of George's mouth rose.

"And she would be right, George. I… I'm sorry I got us into this."

George was surprised and moved by the genuine remorse in Murdoch's voice. He let the words hang in the air for a time so he could listen to them again in his mind.

"Well, uh, I… thank you, sir." He shook his head, and paused. No sense staying angry. "What's done is done. We will rest here, although it is hardly ideal. "We will move on when you are ready, and not a minute—not one minute!—before."

"Very well, then, George. I will rest."

* * *

George was cooking one fish and Sparks was gutting the other, Van Der Beek not knowing how, when Bill re-entered the encampment from the woods near the road. "There's a cargo wagon coming," he said without preamble, and turned to address George. "About half an hour. Bet you boys could hitch a ride. If it's who I think it is, he's usually open to, ah, negotiation. But he won't want to wait."

"But I thought cargo wagons weren't allowed to take passengers," Murdoch said, surprised. He was once again propped up next to the fire, eating his breakfast. George had tried to bring a plate to the tent, only to be scolded for forgetting for a blessed moment about the bears. In the woods, it was never safe to eat where you slept.

"Like I said, if this is Jeremiah Jenkins' wagon, he'll negotiate," Bill said, and winked.

Andrews chimed in. "Who's going to enforce rules like that here anyway? It's not like there are any coppers around." He glanced at Bill, and then stared straight at Murdoch. "Sir."

George felt a twinge of fear. Bill has spent a lot of time away from the camp—perhaps he has heard something?

Andrews continued, now turning his attention to George. "Why do you call him sir, anyway?"

George had not thought of how to answer such a question, but Murdoch spoke up without missing a beat. "We've served together."

"Is that so," said Andrews.

"It is indeed," said Murdoch, his eyes bearing that dangerous glint that was so effective in the interview room.

George Crabtree nodded, and remained silent. He gave a quick look and a shake of his head to Andrews before he scooped the fish out onto a tin plate and handed it to a wide-eyed George Stewart, who was mercifully quiet for once.

"The wagon, George?" Murdoch asked, trying to get the conversation back onto safer ground.

"So you'd be willing to take it, then, sir."

"It does seem our most promising option at the moment, George."

"Indeed it does, sir. Indeed it does," agreed George, and he headed back to the tent to pack.


	8. Bumps on the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A taciturn man will help Crabtree and Murdoch get to North Bay, for a price.

Forty minutes after Bill told them of the approaching wagon, they were once again on the road. George was torn between relief and great irritation. On the bright side, Doctor Ogden would receive her telegram (and how George was fretting over the wording of it), and they were finally headed out of this accursed wilderness. But the implacable Jenkins had relieved them of every last penny, both flashlights, and the rest of the laudanum before he would even consider giving them a ride, and he had implied more than once that he did not consider this bounty to be enough. George was vaguely panicked about how they would procure money in North Bay until he remembered that Doctor Ogden could likely send a money transfer, depending on what time they arrived.

He rode on the bench seat at the front, staring at the hind quarters of two sets of horses and a donkey. Behind him and Jenkins were large stacks of deer skins, on their way to the Beardmore Tannery in Acton, and a supine Murdoch, laid out on a bedroll (and George's pillow) on top of them.

Murdoch was asleep. Mercifully so, thought George, given the stench of the hides. Andrews had filled one of their canteens with moccasin flower tea, and instructed him to drink well of it. Murdoch was familiar with its sedative effects, and quaffed it gratefully. He did not particularly want to be awake to endure the wagon's every bounce on the pitted, bumpy road.

Jenkins was a laconic, vaguely hostile man, and George's feeble attempts to make small talk fell flat. He decided it was just as well—although he was infinitely glad for the ride, he was in no mood to keep up idle conversation with a stranger. Feeling he had met his social obligations, George fell silent. His thoughts turned to the men at the camp.

Van Der Beek, of course, was quite useless. George almost regretted that a comfortable bed in a clean inn awaited the man in Haileybury. What on God's green Earth had the man been thinking, shooting fish? His heart raced every time he thought of the rifle shots: he heard the sound again and again, and flashed back to a collapsed, bleeding Murdoch on the forest floor. A pusillanimous ninny, that Van Der Beek was. He had been the only one not to help get them and their belongings onto the wagon while Jenkins waited impatiently.

George Stewart? Well, he would likely be all right someday, if he ever learned to stop blithering. He was awfully naïve, most irritating, but not a bad chap. George wished him peace, somewhere far away. Perhaps a farm on the opposite side of Quebec.

Sparks was certainly an agreeable companion, really the only one of the bunch with whom George had felt any kinship. He was grateful for the man's easygoing nature and his willingness to help in the face of potential danger. It saddened him to bid "Sparky" farewell, and he hoped their paths would cross again one day.

George, having seen relatively little of Bill, had not developed much sense of him other than that he was a generous, friendly man. He would always be grateful to him for letting them stay the night, and he hoped that Bill's kindness toward them would not bring him any repercussions from his fellow Indians. What was that word that Murdoch had used? _Anishinaabe_. That must be their word for themselves. In any case, he wished Bill—and his people—well. They did not deserve the hand they'd been dealt.

As for Andrews, George did not know what to think. Andrews had seemed a shifty type, on first impression the kind of man George would not be surprised to see in the cells of Station House Four. He never quite trusted a man who didn't share his Christian name. But the man had saved Detective Murdoch's life, and he had even been so kind as to send them on with the tea, as well as two more bundles of moss and a jar of the greasy brown salve, made from bear fat and mucilage from the bark of the slippery elm tree.

George usually considered himself a decent judge of character. One had to be, to do well in the Constabulary. He found Andrews more than slightly baffling. Again, he looked forward to conversing with the detective.

Without the stimulation of idle chatter to keep himself awake, George found himself drifting off. More than once, he jerked back to consciousness, realizing he was coming far too close to falling asleep on the gruff, mercenary driver. He was finally mortified to awaken leaning on Jenkins, who stopped the wagon and told him to go get in the back. Had he _drooled_ on the man? Oh, dear.

He clambered over the back of the seat, and Jenkins spurred the horses on again. George opened the second bedroll and lay down on it. The deer hides smelled quite foul, and Murdoch was once again snoring loudly. George himself was still quite stiff and sore, and the lack of suspension on the wagon meant that every bump rattled him terribly. He briefly wondered if this was what one's existence might be in Hell. _Have I died already? Is this it? I tried to live a good life… I hadn't thought I'd sinned enough to earn such a fate..._ He eyed the canteen, debated with himself briefly, and then unscrewed the lid and took a healthy draught. _No point being awake for such a Hellish journey if I don't have to be._

* * *

"Get up," a voice said curtly.

George pulled the bedroll over his head.

"Get up, I said." He didn't recognize the voice.

"Mmf," said George.

"You're in North Bay. Get out of my wagon."

George awoke with a jolt, and immediately regretted it. The ache from the journey on the potholed road compounded his soreness from the day and night before. The aches were layered, he thought. _A big layer ache._ He smiled slightly at the wordplay, then it struck him. _Wait. North Bay? Already? What?_

Murdoch touched his shoulder. "George. Wake up. We have to get off the wagon."

"Sir," George said muzzily. "Those are words I'm sure the Inspector would love to hear." Everything was foggy. I have to get up, he thought, and sent instructions to his arms and legs to get moving, but they roundly ignored him.

Murdoch shook him gently. "Come on, George. He's impatient."

Jenkins was an intimidating man, and George did not want to anger him. A small burst of adrenaline enabled George to shake his head to clear it, and he finally managed to push himself up to sitting. It was perhaps five o'clock, and he was ravenous. Right. Get off the wagon. He scooted to the edge, and hopped down. He grabbed his bedroll and a couple of the bags and laid them on the ground, and then realised the detective was not moving.

"Sir, are you in need of assistance?"

Murdoch spoke quietly and urgently. "George, I am in need of shoes."

"What?" George looked at the detective's feet, and blinked in surprise. "Where are your boots, sir?"

"I don't know, George."

"You were wearing them when Andrews and George Stewart loaded you onto the wagon, weren't you, sir?"

"Of course I was, George!" Murdoch hissed.

"So where are they?"

"_George! I don't know!"_

George rocked back a bit, still unsteady on his aching legs. He looked quizzically at Murdoch and then gestured with his head at the retreating Jenkins. Murdoch raised his eyebrows and nodded.

Right. _Bollocks_, as the Inspector would say.

George walked around to the front of the wagon, where Jenkins was unhitching Alice, Brown Betty, and Wilfrid. "Mister Jenkins," he said firmly.

"What do you want?" the driver grumbled, not meeting George's eye.

"I should like to ask a favour."

Jenkins snorted. "Only people I do favours for is ones give me cash."

"Well, hear me out, Mister Jenkins. My friend here seems to have misplaced his boots somewhere along the journey, and he is unable to leave your wagon without them. Perhaps you could—"

"Well he has feet, eh? So what's the problem?"

"Mister Jenkins. I should think you might understand the peril and unpleasantness inherent in walking about unshod. Why, even your horses wear shoes."

"No skin off my nose if some stranger's running about in socks." He handed one, then another, set of reins to George.

George scowled. This was clearly going to require a different tack. "Mister Jenkins. I don't believe my friend and I have properly introduced ourselves. My name is Constable George Crabtree, and this is Detective William Murdoch of the Toronto Constabulary."

Jenkins' eyes widened in alarm. "Oh, you're threatening me now?" he said defensively. "I done nothing wrong. Fair's fair. I traded you for the ride. You—"

Got him, George thought triumphantly. "Come now, Mister Jenkins. I uttered no threat. However, if the mere mention of the constabulary should engender such apprehension in you, perhaps it would be wise for you to tell me where Detective Murdoch might find his boots, so that there is no need to contact our local colleagues."

Jenkins squinted and shifted uncomfortably as he passed along the third set of reins. George stared at him, hard, and waited.

"Very well, then, Mister Jenkins, I shall be speaking with—"

"No, wait!" Jenkins reached into the bag under his seat and practically hurled the boots at Crabtree. "Take the goddamn boots and leave me the Hell alone."

George shot Jenkins the filthiest look he could muster as he headed back around to Murdoch and their bags. "Thank you, Mister Jenkins. I trust you will give us a few moments to vacate your wagon of the detective and the rest of our belongings."

"Suit yourself, copper." He practically spat the word as he clambered back into the driver's seat to stew.

George seethed as he tied up the horses and the donkey at a hitching post and headed once again to the back of the wagon. _Who steals an injured man's boots?_ Murdoch, sensing George's mood and the reason for it, opened his mouth to speak. George looked intently at him, eyes blazing, and shook his head. For once, Murdoch backed off. "Come along, sir. Let me help you with those boots."

It took some time to put the now-dusty, stinking bedrolls away and collect everything into a neat pile. Jenkins had dropped them at the stables where they had first picked up the horses and old Wilfrid, and the groom took the animals back without a word. Murdoch sat down heavily on a bench, and George began to pace back and forth as he considered the possibilities for the next leg of the journey.

"All right, sir, we need to get to the telegraph office to contact Doctor Ogden, and possibly request a wire transfer of some funds. Mister Jenkins left us quite penniless."

"Are you sure, George? We do have return tickets already paid for, as well as provisions for the train ride. Is there anything else we need purchase before we get home?"

George thought for a moment. "Well, the telegram, sir."

"But that's all?"

"I believe so, sir."

"Well, Julia can pay for the telegram upon receipt in Toronto."

A smile began to spread across George's face. "Of course, sir. I had forgotten that was a possibility. Can't imagine why I might be tired. But I suppose this means we shall have to be on the next train, as we've no more funds for lodging."

"Unfortunately not. It's just gone five o'clock, so we've missed the three-fifteen. We'll have to wait for the next one."

"And when is that, George?"

"That one, I believe, is at ten-thirty this evening."

Murdoch closed his eyes and calculated for a moment. "That will put us in to Don Station at six fifty-five tomorrow morning."

"Indeed it will, sir." George shuddered inwardly at the thought of a night sitting upright on a shaking, noisy train, but then reminded himself it had to be better than lying awake in the woods waiting to be eaten by a bear, or a wolf. Or a werewolf. _A bearwolf?_ Now that was a terrifying prospect.

"Very good, then, George, let us proceed to the telegraph office." Murdoch stood up slowly, without assistance, and took a few hesitant steps.

"How are you keeping right now, sir?"

"I'm fi—" Murdoch broke off, seeing George glaring at him darkly. "I'm all right for a short walk, George. I won't ask you to give me any of the bags."

"Very well, then, sir." He took a breath. "Sir, I shall be most cross should you overexert yourself and further delay our journey home."

"Of course, George. I'll be mindful."

"I should certainly hope so, sir."

They began their slow progression to the centre of town.


	9. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crabtree and Murdoch wait in North Bay for the next train home.

The two men stood near the entrance of the telegraph office. George began, "Now sir, I've put a great deal of thought into the wording of the telegram to Doctor Ogden, and—"

"It doesn't have to be complicated, George. Just 'BEEN SHOT. ARRIVING DON STN 06:55. WM.'"

"Sir!" George was indignant. "We… we… we can't say that! Think of her distress!"

"Well I think it should be clear that I'm all right, given that she's receiving the telegram in the first place…"

"Sir." George scowled at Murdoch. "Let me write it. She needn't know of your injury until we return home—I shouldn't wish her to fret."

"George. She will want to know. She'll be quite angry if the first she learns of it is when we get off the train."

"That's as may be, sir, but I shouldn't wish to worry her before there's anything she can do about it."

"I'll handle that, George."

"How—how can you 'handle' that, sir, if you're not there with her?"

Murdoch frowned, and rubbed his forehead. "She needs to know, George."

George squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "All right, sir, if you insist. She is your wife, after all. But I should like it known that I obj—"

"Just _send_ it, George."__

_ __ _

After some more arguing about wording, they finally agreed: "CASE SOLVED. WM UP POST SHOT TO CHEST. DON STN 06:55 TMRW. GC."[i]

"There, sir. Now she'll be aware of your wound, but she'll also know that you're, ah, out of the woods, so to speak."

"Very good, George. I suppose you were right to insist on rewording it. I shouldn't wish to alarm her needlessly."

George opened his mouth to retort, but then thought better of it. What would be the point of continuing to squabble? "Indeed, sir," was all he said.

* * *

They had several hours to kill in North Bay before the train departed, but without funds, the two men agreed there was nothing to be done but wait at the station. They retrieved their suits from the lockers, and Murdoch disappeared off to the washroom while George remained on the uncomfortable bench with their belongings.

George caught a whiff of himself, and shuddered in disgust. He reeked of old sweat and stale smoke and fresh deer hide, and he was very much looking forward to a long, hot bath. Had they any money, he might have suggested a few hours' stay in a local hotel, solely for access to the facilities, but here they were instead. He wondered what Murdoch was up to. The man had been gone for quite some time. George was beginning to think he should lock up all their bags again and go see if he was all right, when Murdoch finally emerged, dressed in his suit and, to George's astonishment, clean-shaven.

"Sir! You look like a new man!"

"Well, thank you, George, but not entirely. I wasn't able to do as thorough a job as I had hoped, and I shall be most pleased for access to a proper bathtub once we return home."

"Indeed, sir, as will I. As will I." George noticed that the detective's outfit was not complete. "Your tie, sir. Here, let me help you."

Murdoch flinched slightly. "It's all right, George."

"Are you quite sure, sir? I confess you don't look quite yourself without the tie. And Doctor Ogden will be reassured to see you looking much the way you did when we left, save for how you're now guarding your chest."

Murdoch glanced around unhappily. "Well, I suppose."

George moved in to fix Murdoch's tie, and the detective wrinkled his nose. "Good heavens, George, that is quite a pungent smell coming off you. I can see why the people on the street gave us such a wide berth."

George smiled wryly. "Very well, then, sir, perhaps I shall assist you after I've taken the chance to freshen up a bit."

"That would be much appreciated, George."

* * *

George did the best he could with the small sink, washing himself as surreptitiously as he could in case someone came in. He was glad that he had brought a small toiletry kit complete with soap and a razor and brush, but the dim light and the tiny size of the mirror made it difficult to see himself as he was shaving, and he nicked himself more than once. He still ached all over, and it was a challenge to get out of his filthy, rank clothing and back into the suit he had worn on the train six days before. He boggled more than once at Murdoch's ability to wash, shave, and dress himself in such tight quarters with only limited use of one of his arms. Perhaps he emerged from the womb perfectly groomed, with not a hair out of place. Maybe he was even wearing a tiny suit and an infant-sized hat. George snickered at the thought.

He found that even the cursory wash made a world of difference, especially with the fresh clothes. For the first time in days, he began to let himself believe that a return to his life as a big-city constable was within reach. There were times in the woods when he had not been so sure.

When he returned to the bench where Murdoch awaited, he found the detective asleep again, his good arm draped protectively over the bags resting next to him. George eyed him appraisingly. Murdoch was pale and drawn: he might have slept well in the tent and on the wagon, but the man had been shot and nearly suffocated within the past forty-eight hours. The suit and homburg could do only so much to restore him. He still needed time, and more rest.

George sat down on the other side of the bags, and recoiled slightly from the smell. Murdoch himself no longer reeked—in fact, George found the familiar scent of his pomade quite pleasant—but the bags and the bedrolls still did, and George was nearly despondent about his dear pillow. To be perfectly blunt, it stank. He fervently hoped that it would be salvageable after a good airing and a fresh pillowcase. He loved that pillow.

Murdoch awoke at about eight o'clock, ravenous. George had been snacking on more moose pemmican and some venison jerky while a few squares of hardtack soaked up water next to him. A few passerby looked at him askance, startled to see such a citified-looking man eating such backwoods food. And in the middle of the station, no less!

George quietly noted the looks of disapproval to Murdoch, but the detective was unconcerned. Food was food, and he was hungry, and he could certainly vouch for the concentrated nutritional value of either of George's choices. He, too, tucked in. When the provisions were gone, Murdoch dozed off again, and George dug a novel out of his bag and began to read.

Two more hours inched by, until the first boarding call for Toronto. George heaved a sigh of gratitude that their time in the woods had reached its end. He awakened Murdoch as gently as he could, collected the bags, and guided the groggy detective onto the train.

* * *

The train ride was a quiet one. George found himself musing on the last time he and Murdoch had been on a night train, taking that monster James Gillies to be hanged in Kingston. George still had the occasional nightmare about watching Murdoch jump off the railroad bridge into the rushing river below after the escaped murderer, and he still, over a year later, felt a wave of nausea every time he recalled the frantic search for the detective along both shores. Doctor Ogden had been beside herself. After all she'd been through to be with this man…

The sight of Murdoch's limp, unconscious, bloody body hanging from a branch, his shoulder contorted at a terribly unnatural angle and his face only inches out of the fast-moving water, still haunted him. He shivered at the memory. That was a bad night.

George shifted in his seat, and turned to study the sleeping detective. George himself was one of William Murdoch's most dedicated admirers, and owed the older man more than he could ever express. George sometimes winced at the recollection of his young, naïve, poorly educated self during his early days in the Constabulary. Under William Murdoch's tutelage and mentorship, though, he had become a seasoned and effective investigator, and he had discovered in himself an aptitude for the written language that he might never have otherwise. Yes, George Crabtree held William Murdoch in very high regard indeed.

It was the strength of this regard that prompted George to mull over the tremendous anger he had felt toward his mentor back in those hateful woods. Murdoch's unquestioning dedication to what he perceived as justice often led him to recklessness, and this time, as on so many other occasions, he had endangered them both.

George had seen a lot of death. Indeed, this entire misadventure had begun when Edward Graham had staggered up to the back door of Station House Four and died right in front of him. He was intimately familiar with the risks inherent in their line of work, and he had long ago accepted them as part of the pursuit of justice. But what he found so hard to stomach was Detective Murdoch's willingness to increase those risks, to himself and those around him, especially when the chances of escaping that peril were terrifyingly small. George knew in his bones the kind of loyalty the man engendered, and he knew firsthand how keenly those close to him felt it when Murdoch flung himself into danger.

_You would make a terrible politician,_ he thought idly, and gave a sad half-smile as he continued to contemplate his wounded companion. _And you have a wife now, sir, after an exceedingly long and difficult journey to the altar, and I have an Edna and very likely a Simon to consider now as well. What would they have done had you got us killed?_

It was about two o'clock in the morning, and George was sulking. Murdoch had fallen asleep on his shoulder, much the way he himself had accidentally done on Jeremiah Jenkins, and he was torn about what to do. He needed the water closet, and he very much wanted the rest of that moccasin flower tea. He had always been quite unable to sleep sitting up.

He sat for some time, debating, until the urge to relieve himself nearly overcame him. He was just about to shift Murdoch back over toward his own seat when the train jerked suddenly and startled him awake. "George!" whispered the detective in surprise. "Was I leaning on you?"

"Ah, I'm afraid you were, sir. If you'll excuse me, I need to…" he trailed off as he stood up with alacrity.

"Of course, George."

Murdoch had shifted to the inner seat by the time George got back, and he was asleep again, this time leaning against the side of the train. George shrugged saturninely and sat back down where Murdoch had been. He reached into the bag with the canteen, hoping to drink well of the sedative tea, but found less than half a cup left. _No wonder he's sleeping so well. Drat his oily hide. Although I suppose I can't begrudge him too much. My hide has no bullet holes._ He drank what was left, and hoped for the best.

The lights in the compartment were too dim for reading, and so George returned to his woolgathering, interrupted now and then by the occasional bit of dozing between jerks of the train. He mused over potential plots for a novel, his favourite types of vaudeville acts, the fountain pen display at the Timothy Eaton department store. He wondered whether to propose to Edna. He loved her, and he could hardly conceive of finding a better woman. And Simon needed a father.

George pictured himself down on one knee, holding a ring, and Edna's radiant smile in response to his question. The imagined scene filled him with happiness. _Yes_, he thought. _Yes, I should wish very much to marry Edna Garrison Brooks, if she'll have me_. His thoughts turned for a while to choosing an appropriate time to propose, and his mood brightened considerably.

By five o'clock, George found himself pondering the men they had met at the camp once more. Such an odd collection of persons. He thought again about which ones he had come to respect and which ones not, and suddenly it struck him. One could base the measure of another person, of the depth of a friendship or romance, of trust itself, on how that person acted when someone close by was in trouble. To him, he realized, the deep connection evident in caring for someone who needed help, and in the humbling of oneself enough to accept that help, could be far more important than ferreting out a potentially damaging truth. _How shall we continue to seek justice if we die in its pursuit? And who are we, anyway, if we fail to take care of each other?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i] It seems that the railway between North Bay and Toronto in 1902 did not come anywhere near Don Station, which was in the east end of Toronto—instead, it came in from the west, stopping at Davenport and Parkdale before its final arrival at Union. I'm saying Don here for consistency with the world of the show.


	10. Home and Dry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Toronto, and finally, George has someone to look after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bold text near the end is dialogue directly from S8E11. Thank you so much for coming along for the ride. I really enjoyed writing this and would be very grateful for your feedback.

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Doctor Ogden!" George Crabtree embraced her warmly, and found himself teary-eyed. The fatigue, and the return to familiar ground, had brought his roiling emotions right to the surface.

"George. How good it is to see you! I must know all about what happened. Where is William? How is he?" She turned and scanned the train with more than a hint of agitation.

"He's quite all—ah, he's recovering. I shouldn't say he's all right, as we had words when he was relentless in insisting that he was, when he most clearly was not, but he is on the mend."

"_Where is he!_" Julia's tone bordered on desperate.

"I'm here, Julia," Murdoch announced as he painfully made his way down the train steps. He was carrying a single bag, his left arm back in its sling, and he winced with each step. Julia rushed to him, taking the bag and putting it on the ground, and kissed him as if her soul depended on his embrace.

George watched with relief as the good doctor fussed over her husband, feeling the weight of responsibility for the man's well-being shift away from himself. He had done his duty and seen the detective safely back to Toronto. He could go home, to his own bed under his own roof, and sleep. Blessed sleep.

"George! I simply must hear all about what happened. You'll come back to the hotel with us, won't you? Please, you must. I must know how William's wound was treated. And we can offer you an excellent, hearty breakfast. I imagine you're hungry after such a long journey."

George closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed. He could never say no to the remarkable Doctor Ogden, and he supposed he ought to explain about the bear grease, and the moss. And the offer of a hot meal did sound most enticing...

"Very well, then, Doctor, I shall accompany you. B-but I shan't stay long at all."

"Of course, George, I'm sure you're keen to get home."

"I most certainly am, Doctor. Detective Murdoch and I have had rather a trying time."

"Indeed we have, George," agreed Murdoch. "And the inspector will want a report." He was still leaning on his wife, his good arm holding her close. She picked up the bag, and shepherded the two exhausted men to the waiting carriage.

* * *

George sat on the chesterfield in the Murdoch-Ogden suite at the Windsor House Hotel, willing the next twenty or so minutes to pass as quickly as possible. How he wanted to go home. He watched as Julia, a stethoscope around her neck, eased the seated detective out of his sling, suit jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. At the sight of the makeshift dressing and bandage, she exclaimed in surprise. "What is this, George?"

"Well, ah, it's dried moss, held in place with a strip of deer hide," George told her. "We encountered a gentleman who was familiar with rather more… traditional approaches to medicine than what we are accustomed to here in the city." _Here in the city._ He savoured the phrase.

"Sphagnum moss, to be precise," added Murdoch as he leaned forward to let Julia untie the hide. "I believe George has some more, should you wish to analyse it."

Julia gingerly lifted the moss and sniffed at it. "It smells rather earthy." She put it aside carefully, and began to inspect the wound. "How fascinating! There's no sign of infection whatsoever! And what is this?" she asked, dabbing at a bit of the salve that coated Murdoch's chest and rubbing it experimentally between her fingers.

George reached into his pack and pulled out the jar that Andrews had given him. "I am informed that it's bear fat and slippery elm bark," he said as Julia opened it and sniffed the contents.

"Mucilage from the inner bark, George," Murdoch corrected him. "It also helps ward off infection."

"Indeed! I shall be most keen to analyse that as well!" She put the jar down next to the moss, and then turned back to her husband. "Now William, let me get a look at you."

George watched carefully as Doctor Ogden checked Murdoch's pulse, respiration rate, and temperature, and listened intently to his chest and back, directing him to take deep breaths. Probing gently at the wound again, she remarked, "So the second intercostal space. I'm delighted to say it's healing remarkably well! Now when, precisely, were you shot?"

Murdoch hesitated, trying to calculate how much time had passed since Mack had pulled the trigger. George piped up: "Three days ago, Doctor, mid-morning. I should think it's been almost exactly seventy-two hours." His face darkened at the memory.

"I confess my recollection of the past three days is somewhat foggy," Murdoch said, sheepishly. "Although I do recall that George was most attentive."

"Well, it's good that George is here, isn't it?" George forced a smile and nodded. _Soon,_ he thought dejectedly. _Soon._ "Now George, anything else to report about William's health? Appetite, elimination, mental state? And what are these other marks on his chest?"

George took a breath, and launched into a lengthy explanation. He told her of the medicine woman, Murdoch's delirium, the confrontation, the hike. The horrid patent medicine. The laudanum-fueled eleven-hour horse ride. The lack of requests for help with the trowel. ("The laudanum, George. It slows digestion," Doctor Ogden told him.) The fall at the campsite, the fever and the swelling and the near-suffocation, the enigmatic traveller who drained Murdoch's chest…

Julia interrupted, her eyes huge. "Do you mean to tell me William suffered a hemothorax? And that this strange man treated it with fish teeth and moss?"

"Indeed I do, Doctor," George answered, and smiled. Exhausted though he was, he could still enjoy spinning a yarn, especially when there was such an attentive audience to a story that ended well. "Hemothorax. Is that the word, then."

"It certainly is. And if left untreated, it can be quite fatal."

A chill ran down George's arms. "Well, Doctor, I'm certainly glad it wasn't." He nodded at Murdoch.

"As am I, George," replied the doctor, as she squeezed her husband's hand. "The two of you have been through quite the ordeal."

"We have indeed, Julia. And I should like to thank George for his help. I was… perhaps not the easiest of travelling companions. I believe I may have overestimated my own capacities."

George swallowed a bitter laugh. "Think nothing of it, sir. I should like to believe you would do the same for me."

"Of course he would, George. We both would, in an instant. I can't thank you enough for bringing my William home." Julia took George's hand and squeezed it. He looked at her, eyes shining, and gave a single nod.

Murdoch yawned, and George did too, once, and then again. "I should best be on my way, then," he said, nodding at them both, just as there was a knock on the door.

"That must be breakfast," Julia said. "George, could you please answer that while I help William get changed into something more suitable to his condition?"

"I'm fine, Ju—" Murdoch broke off. George's glare could be quite fearsome. He reconsidered. "That would be lovely, Julia. George, feel free to help yourself. We've ordered enough for all three of us."

* * *

George wolfed down a bowl of stewed fruit, three poached eggs on toast, a heaping portion of fried tomatoes, and a generous slice of broiled ham while he awaited the couple's return. The door to the bedroom was closed, and George began to suspect that there was some canoodling happening behind it. He found himself on the horns of a dilemma: should he leave without saying his farewells, should he embarrass them and himself by interrupting their smooching for seemingly the millionth time, or should he remain until they reappeared of their own volition?

He finished his breakfast, and finally chose the third option, not wishing to be rude. It occurred to George that the chesterfield upon which he sat was quite a comfortable one. He loosened his tie, and leaned over onto the armrest to wait. He was sure they wouldn't mind if he dozed for a little while.

When George finally awakened, the sun was low in the sky and he was most disoriented. He lay motionless for some time, trying to sort out where he was. It finally struck him that he was back in Toronto, still on a chesterfield, at his superior officer's home. How had he slept so well? The moccasin flower tea was long gone, and his dear pillow was likely a total loss. He was baffled.

_Wait_, he thought suddenly, and lifted his head. His pillow was underneath it, clean and sweet-smelling as it had been when he had departed Toronto nearly a week before. _How…?_ he wondered, astonished. _Perhaps Doctor Ogden sent it to the hotel laundry?_

He rubbed his feet together, and realized that he was unshod. There was a blanket over him, and his formerly packed clothes and bedroll were in a neat pile on the side table, appearing freshly laundered too. Apparently Doctor Ogden had looked after him well.

_Well, all right_, he supposed. _I do want to get back to my own abode, but there are far worse places than here._ He heard the detective's voice.

"**Thank you**," Murdoch said, and hung up the telephone. "**Migizi Pimise turned himself in yesterday. I suppose he knew someone would come looking for him.**"

"**And the people he was with?**" Doctor Ogden inquired.

"**They moved further north.**"

"**It won't go well for them, will it?**"

George knew: no. No, it wouldn't.

He grew very sad. He and the detective owed their lives to Migizi Pimise and his people. The man had done what he believed was necessary to protect those close to him, as George Crabtree believed he would do for his own. He would draw the line at murder, but it was not impossible to imagine circumstances in which that line might be blurred. The week's tribulations had proved to him once again the lengths to which a person might go to protect someone dear.

He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and looked for his boots. Detective Murdoch was safe, and it was time for George Crabtree to go home.


End file.
